Grump Bag

2011-07-25T14:52:00.001-07:00

Man on the moon

2011-07-25T14:46:00.001-07:00

So they stuck a man on the moon

but they can't make the tube run on time.

So they stuck a man on the moon

but they can't find the terrorists.

So they stuck a man on the moon

but they keep posting my neighbours

fucking gardening magazines

through my door.

So they stuck a man on the moon

but when it snows

the whole country falls apart.

So they stuck a man on the moon

but they can't work out if my rash

is just a rash.

So they stuck a man on the moon

but they cant stop the paedos

the rapists

or the murderers.

You know what?

I DON'T THINK THEY STUCK A FUCKING MAN ON THE MOON

Young Love

2011-07-21T11:59:00.000-07:00

Dwayne 17.34

So wen is u gona

suk my dik lol

Aisha 17.50

oh yeh chatin shit

Dwayne yeh? Lol

Chatin Lyk Im sum ho!!!!

Dikhed!!!

Aisha 18.20

Why u txtin me neway?

Herd u fingerd becki in

The asembly hal…

go txt that slag init?

Dwayne 18.45

nah, dat was sum rumor

ting

cum link man down park

Aisha 19.53

Y u lieing u dikhed… mr

dodwell saw u. Plus I told

u…

Im not sum ho

Dwayne 20.02

Dodwells sum peedo init

Come down park

U kno I lyk u, rite?

Aisha 21.57

I lyk u too Dwayne

But I told u. im not no

ho. neway

U kno I cant cum, im

grounded stil

Dwayne 22.05

Y u grounded?

Aisha 22.27

got cuaght

Sukin off my step

Dad for 10 B&H

Again innit

2011-07-21T05:51:00.001-07:00

Jamie Oliver

2011-07-21T05:43:00.001-07:00

Jamie Oliver

If that is your real name

I hate your fucking face.

why dont you take your dopey cap

and your faux cockney ways

and just fuck off?

I hate the way you speak with your

flabbery fucking jowles

flapping everywhere.

your face is the most punchable I have seen

and yes

i have seen vanessa phelps

i would like to punch your face

with my fist

so bad.

YEAH

take that Jamie

if that is your real name

take my fucking fist

YEAH

I hate your fucking face!

p.s the way you wear that shirt over that t shirt makes you look like a cunt.

Marriage

2011-07-19T12:10:00.000-07:00

Every week, she toils away in front of the big white machine, unravelling yet another spunk encrusted sock.

Every night, she soaks her hands in the cancer enducing washing up waters, scooping the gunk from out of his discarded egg cup.

Every hour, she ponders why her life is more depressing than the Nazi holocaust and child rape combined.

Well then love,

Maybe you shouldn't have been such a fucking soft touch.

The Last Man on Earth

2011-07-13T16:33:00.000-07:00

Monday

Fucking hell. I've only woken up this morning to find out i'm the last man on earth!

Not sure what to think or feel….

Dad. Uncle John. My best friend Luke, they're all gone……Im devastated.

At least Richard Hammond's dead.

The cunt.

Tuesday

Fuck me. What a nightmare day. Spent five hours trying to find a funeral company to collect my Dad's body.

It seems there's no-one left who's capable of reversing a hearse down our drive.

Had to choose between leaving his corpse outside in the garden, or preserving it in the coffin freezer.

Ended up dumping him in the garden. Didn't want to sacrifice the Meat Feast Pizzas.

It's what he would have wanted.

Watched BBC news. It seems the whole thing's been caused by some virus or something...

Tried to listen to the Government's action plan but couldn't hear due to my Mum's persistent interruptions. She hasn't stopped since my Dad died.

There's no one around to suppress her personality.

Wednesday

Mum seems to be doing OK today, so I thought I'd pop out to the shops. It was incredible. I'm like a pussy magnet… every woman I walk past tries to chat me up!

Must be down to my new 'last man on earth status'.

Got wanked off in Pret, sucked off in Starbucks, then had a fivesome in H&M.

Even wiped my dick on a £60 blouse; the store manager didn't bat an eyelid.

"Just happy to get a decent bit of cock", she said.

Everything seemed to be going great until the tube ride home.

It took three hours.

Each time we got to a station it took 20 minutes for the train driver to park. Plus she got lost.

Wasn't the end of the world mind. Used the opportunity to challenge the women in my carriage to a blow job competition.

God my knob's getting sore.

Thursday

Was planning to spend the day watching TV, but all channels are screening nothing but endless repeats of Sex and the City, Ally McBeal, and Glee.

Switched over to Sky Sports, but they're broadcasting extended coverage of the women's world cup.

Smashed the screen with my fist.

Read the Newspapers. The countries GDP has taken a 80% hit since the virus spread.

Experts blame the fact women do nothing at work except talk shit, eat cake, and hinder progress in every way plausible.

Nicole Scherzinger's agent got in contact asking me to father her next child. Politely declined.

Now that I can have any woman in the world, why would I choose to fuck the one that most closely resembles a man?.

Starting to get annoyed.

If one more woman knocks on my door asking me to unscrew a jam jar lid I'm going to ram it up her pussy.

Friday

Russia's declared war on China.

Reports claim the Chinese Premier was caught bitching about the Russian Prime Minister's new haircut.

Beijing was nuked immediately.

Both leaders were on their periods, apparently.

Tried to drive the car to Tesco to stock up on emergency supplies, but couldn't get out of my street.

The road and pavement have been obstructed by abandoned cars.

None of my neighbours seem capable of performing the hill-start required to get onto the main road.

2011-07-10T06:59:00.001-07:00

Update: Riz Lateef

2011-07-10T06:56:00.000-07:00

Christians talk of the resurrection of Christ.

One of my friends once claimed he had two large Domino's Pepperoni Passions delivered to his house. By mistake.

Divine intervention always seemed implausible to Grump. Until yesterday, that is. When I witnessed a miracle of my own.

There I was, standing in the ticket hall, at Notting Hill Gate station. When who should I spy?

The one, the only, RIZ LATEEF.

I stood there, breath stifled by sexual urge.

Three months of trawling through phone directories. Multitudinous failed attempts to breach the BBC Television Centre's security. Countless wanks over the six o clock news.

THEN SHE FALLS INTO MY BONER FREQUENTED LAP.

Like a bluebottle fly, drawn to a left over curry, I drifted towards her involuntarily, imbued in her radiant, alluring Asian aura.

Hair tied up, makeup-less face purposely screened behind her BlackBerry, she probably thought she was safe from public detection.

Naive, Riz. Naive.

Your vain attempts to de glamorise yourself are no match for my acutely poised desi radar.

Such delicately sculpted cheeks. Such fragile, brittle little wrists. I could pick them out from the most densely populated Mumbai slum.

I could feel blood rushing to my penis like a Tsunami surging through the indian ocean.

Finally I would sample the exotic fruits of the sub continent. Entranced, edging further towards her, she spied my rapist glare.

Her startled, deep set eyes flashed at me like a pair of marbles.

She sensed danger. But she needn't have feared. I just wanted to greet her. Meet her. Maybe take her home.

MAYBE CONSUME HER SOUL.

She hurried through the ticket hall, attempting to escape. I pursued, eyes locked on her pert, albeit bonier-than-I-had expected buttocks. Her pace quickend. But the crowds were bottle necking at the barriers.

She was trapped.

I pushed my superior body weight onto her lightweight little frame. She yelped. Then I basted her neck with my tongue, before being forcably removed from the staion by florescant jacketed London Underground staff.

You may have escaped this time Riz.

BUT I HAVE THE TASTE

.

Things you should be able to do in GTA 5

2011-07-03T13:47:00.001-07:00

1) Masturbate in the middle of the street

2) Kick small children directly in the face

3) Defecate, then throw the defecation

4) Give people crafty paper cuts

5) Climb into people's homes and rub their faces in their dinner plates

Top Slag

2011-07-03T13:10:00.000-07:00

top slag

looking for a thrill

top slag

all slurs and spills.

top slag

knickers down

top slag

mascara and a frown.

top slag

got fucked on the hill

top slag

took the morning after pill

SO I DONT RESPECT HER

2010-10-28T14:12:00.002-07:00

Riz Lateef

2010-10-28T14:12:00.001-07:00

Tender, fragile face,

architechtually sculpted hair

I yearn to stroke

And plunge deep

Deep

into the Indian ocean

I watch her at her desk

Shuffling her papers

With her fragile little wrists

and ambiguous age.

Maybe ill stalk her.

Down the Gym

2010-02-07T12:34:00.002-08:00

In the free weights section, there's a couple of muscle bound hulks benching 110 kg, the average weight of an obese American child.

Over by the treadmills, there's a bevy of thunder thighed females, dressed in identical pink leotards, sprinting a combined distance that could span the river Thames.

Meanwhile, In a darkened corner, there's me, flabby tits chaffing under a crumpled grey t-shirt, clutching on to a bottle of tropical flavour lucozade.

My number one priority here is to complete a 'work out', while keeping the number of raised eyebrows down to a minimum. Unfortunately, due to the array of sinister stains I am sporting on my baggy tracksuit bottoms, this already appears to be an impossible feat.

With Rihanna's R&B hit 'umbrella' playing loudly through the in house music system, I nod my head rhythmically, in an attempt to assimilate myself into the young, hip, gym going crowd.

Glancing at my reflection in the mirror and discovering a dickhead looking directly back, I stop immediately.

Starting with a light jog, I use the opportunity to perve on the wide array of fit young pussy working out within my immediate surroundings. Big, brown, white and round, there are more pairs of tits bouncing around than one could find in the most female skewed gangbang.

However, after three minutes and twenty four seconds running, I'm already fucked and am starting to emit a slight odour out from under my clammy arm pits. I swear last nights' chicken Kiev is bearing an influence on the must I am excreting, which judging from the disgusted looks of my neighbouring fitness freaks, is now effecting an area wider than I had initially hoped.

My boxers are already chaffing, and the fact I didn't wipe my arse properly earlier is certainly not helping whatsoever.

Dismounting the machine, I head over to the free weight area, and opt for a pair of 8kg dumbbells, which through lifting, I hope will instantaneously increase the circumference of my biceps.

"If only there was a machine to increase the size your cock," I joke to a unappreciative broad shouldered man, pumping his chest next to me, who swiftly moves to the other side of the room.

So I'm working out, I'm really working those guns, and I feel as if I'm inching my body towards physical perfection, despite being currently concealed underneath a thick blanket of saturated fat.

Unfortunately, somebody behind me is trying his best to put me off by emitting a deep grunting noise with every rep he completes: 'urrrrrggggh'. 'Urrrrrrghhhh.' This specimen is clearly using such grunts in order to publicize his physical prowess, and assert himself over other gym users as the dominant primate. Pity he sounds like a screw, being violently fingered by convicts, subsequent to a prison riot.

My Gaydar detects across the room what is obviously a queer, clad in a tight green vest and shorts which are dangerously close to revealing his giblets. For some bizarre reason, I cannot help but stare at his bulge, as my scrawny arms strain under the weight equivalent of two sugar bags.

Unfotunately for me, the queer clocks on, and gives me a appreciative wink. F**k. Not only is sweat now seeping from my pits at an alarming rate, soaking an ever growing patch on my t shirt, but I have also managed to attract the attentions of the only shirt lifter within a five mile radius.

Placing the weights back in their stainless steel rack, I flop onto a mat and attempt a sit up. My technique resembles that of a writhing beached whale, prompting sniggers from onlookers.

"Can you smell chicken Kiev's?" I hear somebody say.

Rolling sluggishly onto my front, I have a crack at a press up.

Failing that, I attempt a 'ladies' kneeling press up.

Failing that, I leave, take my phone out of my pocket and order a large Pepperoni Passion from Dominos Pizza.

Fuck the Gym, it's not work the effort.

2010-02-07T12:34:00.001-08:00

2010-01-24T05:09:00.000-08:00

Paranoid Pat

2010-01-24T04:52:00.000-08:00

The trouble with retirement is it’s a bit like waiting to die, really. It’s as if ever since Roy passed away, ive lost my will to live. Sometimes I just sit and stare out of the window, watching the trees swaying in the wind.

Just staring,

staring,

Just staring really.

I wonder if when the cold sets in jack frost might just take my life away....

I watched Family Fortunes the other day. That Vernon Kay is a nice chap.

- Strong, firm buttocks.

Sometimes the local youths play outside, thumping their footballs against my garden wall, destroying my geraniums.

There was this one occasion when, I heard this great big knock on the front door, and so i peered, ever so carefully, through the spy hole. There these two great big coloured boys stood, loitering in the pathway. Thier skin was a black as the night sky.

"Get out of the house!"They shouted,

Banging on the door, like great big ghastly monsters.

"Your roof is on fire! Youre roof is on fire!

-"You need to open the door now!"

Good lord, I thought. They must have been after my collection of china thimbles.

As my Roy always said: “if the chaps’ black, suspect an attack.”

And so I just stood there, in the hallway, staring at my ornamental golden labradours.

It took the fire fighters six and a half hours to rescue me from the blaze,
But at least I still have my dignity.

2009-12-19T07:47:00.000-08:00

Sexual Intercourse starring Gordon Ramsey

2009-12-19T07:20:00.000-08:00

Bra

Unclip

Pants

Pull down

Cock

Hard

Insert

Thrust

Thrust

Thrust

Breast

Squeeze

Nipple

tongue

baste

Reflection of self

Watch

Watch

Watch

Watch

Watch

Watch

Spunk

Sex

Done.

EPRS MINUTES

2009-12-05T05:30:00.000-08:00

Minutes
__________________________________________________________________________________

Summary Minutes of the meeting of the
Epsom Paedophile ring society (EPRS)
Held on 15 September 2004 at 2.00pm
At Tommy Long fingers Flat

Present: The Fiddler (Chairman)
Pokey Paul,
Mr Chuckles,
Uncle Harry,
P.D.File,
Tommy Longfingers.

Apologies: Garry Glitter (on vacation)

Agenda

1.Snacks

PK complained last month that not enough snacks are being provided at EPRS meetings.
TF has attempted to resolve this matter by providing two multipacks of Doritos ‘cool blue’ tortillas to this month’s group, along with ‘hot n tangy’ dip.

PK and others agree Doritos will suffice, however perhaps a wider range of dips would be nice. UH noted ‘wild herb’ is enjoyable. Available at ASDA, apparently.

2. Packet of Sweets & a cheeky smile; The end of an era?

P.D.F Delivers lengthy presentation concerning the emergence of a new, media savvy youth generation.

Tried and trusted Packet of Sweets and Cheeky Smile technique no longer a use in today’s modern age.

New ‘fishing tools’ needed on successful hunt : Nintendo DS, Hanna Montana DVD, IPod Nanos. TL raises issue of expense for such items. TL told to stop being a Tommy Tight Cunt.

3. Lubricant Test

MC brings in olive oil, an idea inspired from Gordon Ramsey’s popular Television Programme ‘The F Word’. While MC massages it on, supposed health benefits are explained: good for skin, nourishes hair, even rumoured to prevent cancer. Fails copper pipe test. MC sent to A&E.

PP tests butter. Much more effective. PP’s penis inched a fair way into TL’s ear.

4. Karaoke Competition

UH belts out interesting rendition of Mariah Carey’s ‘Always be my baby’, however is outdone by reigning champ PK, this week singing Lionel Richie’s Classic ‘all night long’. UH's miniskirt and mascara a nice touch nonetheless.

Any other business

PP brings up persisting issue of ‘Nappy Rash’. Johnson and Johnson’s baby oil confirmed as suitable soothing solution.

Date of next meeting

The Commitee noted that the date of the next meeting was Tuesday November at 2pm at Chessington world of adventures (Half Term Week).

2009-11-05T15:00:00.000-08:00

Anti Climax

2009-11-05T12:03:00.001-08:00

Girl I fancy at work: (Inaudible)

Me: You think I look like Brad Pitt?

Girl I Fancy at work: No, I said your breath smells like shit

2009-11-02T12:54:00.000-08:00

Five inch Penis

2009-11-02T12:52:00.000-08:00

Suspicions surrounding the physical ineptitude of my penis first arose when I visited my local subway sandwich branch.

There, once presented with a six inch steak and cheese melt, the evidence was all but presented to me in onto a logo emblazoned platter.

I only entered its glass walled confines to ‘eat fresh’.

Instead, I was thrusted directly into the face with a six inch oven baked phallus, unnervingly comparatively larger than my own appendage.

“The portions here are pretty big, right..?”, I guffawed, to my wide eyed girlfriend, who had accompanied the ill fated trip.

“ This just can’t be six inches...” I scoffed, grasping the menacing protrusion in one hand.
But my penile friendly PR was fooling nobody. The six inch subway standard had spoken.
She just stood there, mouth gaping, her world reinvented by an instant realisation she has been sexually serviced by a sub standard toad for the past three years of her life.

As I took a sullen mouthful of its wheaty girth, I felt the mayo slop onto the walls of my throat as if Mr Subway himself had spunked inside the very chambers of my mouth.

The problem with being the possessor of an five inch penis is not too dissimilar to the Goldilocks conundrum.

It’s not too big, it’s not too small. Unlike the fairytale however, it’s just not quite right. Even the pig tailed , petticoated princess herself would smirk at the sight of my Lumbricus terrestris.

Mind you, she's swallowed her fair share of porridge.

You simply just cannot make a women rasp in orgasmic rhapsody when your penis resembles the anatomy of parasitic worm. End of.

And now it is time to cry.

Gossip

2009-10-22T13:04:00.001-07:00

That BNP man’s on telly today

What will he say

What will he say

He might do something racist today

What will he say

What will he say

I bet David Dimbleby wont let him get his way

What will he say

What will he say

That Steven Gately died the other day

And he was a gay

And he was a gay

2009-10-22T13:03:00.001-07:00

Deserves a slap

2009-10-13T09:44:00.000-07:00

"Were having Christmas salad this year", my mum just announced.

I'm not in to beating women, especially mothers.

But I swear, I could have slapped her there and then.

2009-10-06T13:26:00.000-07:00

Film Idea

2009-10-06T13:11:00.000-07:00

Reincarnito

Imagine a world where the mystery of death is no longer a mystery.

Imagine a world where legions of paedophiles do battle against hapless infants

Welcome to Reincarnito.

Reincarnito is set in the specifically defined year of 2038, where revolutionary scientific research leads to the development of a wonder chip (not of the saturated kind). This chip, once inserted into the arm pit of a human, enables the conscious mind to travel from its deceased body to a post mortal destination.

It is Saturday, November the 11th, 2038. Strictly come Dancing is on, but amazingly, no one is bothering to watch it. The XR34-ZX Chip is being tested live, in front of a television audience more incredulous than those who witnessed Derren Brown ‘predict’ the lottery 29 years earlier.
The shiny metal prongs glimmer under the studio lights. The sweaty pit of the dead corpse glistens as the chip is inserted. The world waits. A two day old baby rings the programme and reveals all:

Reincarnation is a reality.

Basically, when the chip is mass marketed, everyone then kills themselves, so they can be reborn as babies, and have another stab at life. Everyone, except one group of course.

The Paedophiles.

Cue: Sci Fi / War/ Action flick documenting the savage battle between a fledgling infant society and paedophiles trying to take advantage of the situation, with moralistic undertones.

Limitations: Baby Actors.

Casting idea: Paedophile ring leader: Ben Affleck

Proposed District Line Extension

2009-09-27T03:40:00.001-07:00

The N word

2009-09-26T06:57:00.001-07:00

You know what it is

and so do I.

But I cant say it.

And neither can you.

I wouldn’t feel comfortable using such a word

Even in the Tibetan plateau

The most remote place on earth,

Its that controversial.

Bitch

Minge

Fuck

Shit

Cock

Even Cunt

I can write all these things,

And not have the slightest care

But not the N word.

God no

Wow there

It just wouldn’t be politically correct.

Fuck it

What type of world do we live in anyway

Free speech is everyone’s right

right?

Im gonna say it

Don’t you dare

Here goes:

Please dont

I'M DOING IT

Think of the children

"Nannyflaps."

Charlie and The Chocolate at Home

2009-09-26T06:54:00.000-07:00

You will need:

100 bags of pickled onion monster munch

100 bags twiglets

10 1.5 litre bottles of Robinsons Strawberry & kiwi

Ice Cubes

1 Dog

25 curlywurlys

Coca Cola

Watering Can

12 boxes of Cadbury fingers

Method

1) Empty 100 bags of monster munch onto kitchen floor, spreading liberally, to create a never
ending field of golden crisps. Run amok.

2) Pour contents of Robinsons strawberry and kiwi squash into bath, then add ice cubes. Turn on cold tap. Swim within the tranquil waters of your very own tropical tasting lake.

3) Fill Watering Can with coke. Ask friend to pour contents onto your head from above. Dance under a torrential downpour of coca cola rain.

4) Scatter twiglets around in your back garden, then crawl around on your hands and knees; grazing in a partly edible forest. Take care not scrape knees on gravel.

5) Heat curly wurlys gently in microwave, causing them to melt slightly. Apply to the coat of dog. Allow the mythical chocolate tasting beast to roam freely around your wonderland, sampling its delights when and where you wish.

6) Stuff face with constant flow of chocolate fingers in between activities to maintain general feeling of euphoria.

7) Calm down. Clean up.

* Works best if ‘pure imagination’ is played loudly in the background.

What a rack

2009-09-26T06:53:00.001-07:00

There was this bar maid

In this Pub

Who had the most banging pair of tits you’ve ever seen.

What a rack.

You know

Not too big

Not too small

Just bang on.

And so all the geezers

in this pub

Used to chat about how fan-

Fucking tastic

This pair of tits were.

Not too big

Not too small

Just bang on.

One day

This Geezer

Mickey Pierce

Said he was gonna ask if he could take a look.

You know,

Go on luv

Get em out

An that.

-He was a right character.

So he walks up to this barmaid

And says

"go on luv".

She looks all confused like.

“What?”

She says.

"Get em out"

He says

All looking down at her tits.

“What do do ya mean? “

She says

prentending not to know,

an that.

But she knows

and we know

- and thats it.

So Mickey Says

“You know exactly what we fucking mean

Darling"

All straight faced

- He was a right chatacter.

So She looks around

And all the geezers in the pub are watching.

Staring.

Leering.

Willing.

“Get them out”

Another bloke mouths.

“Yeah, For the lads!”

Shouts some old todger.

- She feels all on the spot like.

So she does it.

And you know what

That bar maid’s tits

In that Pub

Were the most banging pair of tits you’ve ever seen.

What a rack.

Not too big

Not too small

Just bang on.

Lunch Hour

2009-09-26T06:51:00.001-07:00

As the lunch hour approaches, a co-worker asks me what I am planning to eat. “probably a sandwich, or something” I lie, appropriately.

Moments later, I find myself walking through the large glass doorway of McDonald’s; shiftily sporting glances left, then right, like a balding middle ager entering Amsterdam’s red light district.

Nervously approaching the queue, I purposely wear a puzzled expression as I scan the menu; attempting to gain the false impression I do not frequent this ‘restaurant’ more often than is socially acceptable.

“What would you like…?” The till operator asks in a disgruntled tone.

“Just a big Mac meal, with a coke,” I reply apologetically.

“and would you like to go large?”

“No thanks,” I respond, as if the mere suggestion was ludicrous .

The speed at which my order is converted into a snatchable format is crucial to the success of my stealth operation. At the forefront of the queue, I am on stage, my gluttonous exhibitionism visible, on display for all my discerning audience to see.

Thankfully, the puss pimpled student knows exactly what he’s doing, and thrusts the tray at me within seconds. Surveying my array of fatty delight, I instantly regret the Martyr like decision not to have gone large.

Summoning the courage to ask for ketchup, he provides me with a single pot. The shrewd fucker. I don’t have the courage to ask for a second, whisk the tray away from the counter, andscamper off to a private corner, where I then commence the ritualised process of cramming my fat gob.

Clenching seven chips simultaneously in my clamp like claw, I chomp away robotically, . This is heaven, yet I feel guilty, as if I am responisble for child molestation, or the like. So I sit there, slouched over, a sullen gherkin flapping out of my mouth; pondering what social forces are responsible for making me feel this low.

Why does buying a bit of McCrap these days feel as big a Taboo as snatching a pornographic magazine from the top shelf of a magazine rack? I ask myself.

- “Fat bastard” They must say behind my back. “ Fat flabby titted freak”, They must cuss, in a similar, more convincing fashion.

"Now now, calm down," I ask, attempting to quell the internal voices.

Exiting the confines of the McDonalds Burger brothel, having whored myself out yet again, I nurse my rubber tyre with two clenched hands and feel tears swell my eyes for the fifth time this week. At least when I get back to work I can knock one out in the toilet.

CV

2009-09-26T06:46:00.000-07:00

Name: James Generic-Grad

Address: My Mothers House

Age: Twenty Something

Telephone: 0765545698

Email: might_as_well_sign_on@hotmail.com

Education

Prattle Polytechnic 2005- 2008

BSC (Hons): 2:2 in Mediocrity

St Standard Comprehensive 2002- 2004

A’ Levels: Triviology: A, Pointlessness : A, Unappliable Studies: B
AS Level: Irrelevant Theory : B

Personal Profile

I spent three years at university, where I did very little but eat take aways, attempt to gain carnal knowledge of the opposite sex, and go out on the piss. I have extensive telecommunications experience, (making orders, carrying out cash transactions), due to the fact I called Pizza Hut at least four times a week while ‘Studying’. I have also successfully negotiated a five thousand pound loan with my mother, which I do not intend to pay back.

Subsequent to attaining a 2:2 in Mediocrity, I now intend to secure a highly paid job in ‘The Media’, where I aim to sit around all day on oversized beanbags, sipping frappachinos; indulging in a general sense of self conceit. I am lazy, financially sponge like, and am not prepared to adopt a vocation unless it fits in with ‘who I really am’. Uni pals refer to me as a ‘Legend’, subsequent to that memorable occasion I dragged a traffic cone all the way home/ got chucked out of the Student Union Bar/ Threw up on myself without realizing.

Work Experience

Obligatory Summer Internship – August 2008

Secured a six week summer internship within ‘Flexi Think’, a global PR Consultancy firm, thanks to the fact my Father is White, Middle Classed and friends with a director there.

Was ignored for most of the time, sitting in the furthermost corner of the office, Idly Facebooking, and chatting to friends on MSN Messenger about the time I dragged that traffic cone home.

Once was asked to undertake a photocopying task by a colleague, however fucked it up and consequently wasn’t asked again.

Part time Car Washer For my Dad June 2004 - July 2009

Have worked part time washing my Father’s Volvo estate for over five years, In order to placate his anger with my lethargy.

Personally coordinate the car washing process myself; failing to ensure the job is carried out in an efficient and thorough manner. Often leave vehicle coated in irritating smears, and never bother to clean inside despite directed to do so.

Once managed to pass off the car as ‘cleaned’ without lifting a finger, thanks to convenient downpour of rain.

Other Relevant Experience.

Frequently utilize advanced IT skills such as the “Delete History” function, in order to view pornography on my parents laptop completely undetected.

Must mention that I have travelled to Australia and Thailand; despite it bearing little relevance to anything at all.

Have beaten the computer on ‘World Class’ mode on Pro Evolution (Playstation 3)

Interests

Staying at home for as long as possible / never undertaking a hard days work/ subscribing to deluded aspirations of fame and fortune

What a Cunt

2009-07-20T09:23:00.000-07:00

I was queuing up inside Burger King, minding my own business

When suddenly

This sweaty fat cunt in a suit barges past me

“I’ll have a Double Whopper with cheese meal”, He slurs, all pissed up and pretentious.

“Drink?” The Sri Lankan till robot asks.

“I’ll take a black coffee.”

Black Coffee.

In Burger King.

What a cunt.

2009-07-15T08:35:00.001-07:00

Plans

2009-07-13T14:05:00.002-07:00

Possible Plan For Tomorrow

9am: Morning Alarm, Wake up, wash, change clothes.

9.15 am: Eat Breakfast (Muesli, Banana, Fresh Orange Juice)

9.45 am: Attend Gym for morning workout (One Hour Weights, Half Hour Swim).

12:00 pm: Lunch (Tuna salad, pro biotic yogurt, glass of water.)

12.30 pm: Update CV, contact employers regarding part time work using internet.

2.00 pm: Take walk to High Street, hand out CV to recruitment agencies.

3.00 pm: Visit bank to negotiate overdraft increase

3.30pm Supermarket shopping (Vegetables, potatoes, chicken, toothpaste, flannel.)

4.00 pm: Arrive home, Check Emails, Update Diary . Snack (Rice Cakes).

5.00 pm: Undertake House Chores, (Vacuum living room/ master bedroom.) prepare dinner. Take out Rubbish.

6.00 pm: Evening Run

7.00 pm: Dinner (Chicken casserole w/ seasonal vegetables), Glass of Cress water. Wash up, Dry Dishes .

8.00 pm: Attend evening poetry class.

9.00pm: Read in Bed

10.00 pm: Lights Out

Probable Plan For Tomorrow

9.00am: Morning alarm. Press ‘Snooze’.

9.10am: Morning alarm. Press ‘Snooze’ again.

9.20: Morning alarm. Accidently press ‘off’ instead of ‘Snooze.’

11.00 am: Wake up. Change clothes. (Excluding Recycled boxer shorts and socks worn yesterday.)

11.15 am: Breakfast (Lion Bar, Toffee Crisp. Slice of White Bread)

12.00 pm: Think of visiting Gym. Convince self otherwise.

12.30 pm: Attempt to research jobs using internet. Stare at ex girlfriends Facebook profile instead.

1.00 pm: Still staring.

1.30 pm: http://www.bangbros.com/ (Wank)

2.00 pm: Snack ( Pickled Onion Monster Munch Sandwich. Orange Lucozade.)

2.15 pm: Afternoon nap.

4.00 pm: Wake from nap. Watch Deal or No Deal.

5.00 pm: Watch The Weakest link/ Anne Robinson (2nd Wank)

6.00 pm: Order Dominos Family Pack (Large Pepperoni Passion, chicken strippers, cheesy garlic bread, 1.5 litre bottle Coke.)

6.15 pm: Realise do not possess enough funds for Pizza. Frantically search flat. Uncover £3.15, (£16.85 short).

6.45 pm: Ignore Pizza man aggressively bashing on door.

7.00 pm Lunch/ Dinner (Chicken flavoured Super Noodles w/ splash of ketchup.) Glass of tap water.

7.15 pm Walk into rubbish bin, spill all over kitchen Floor. Ignore.

7.30 pm Eastenders.

8.00 pm Attempt to contact ex girlfriend, no joy.

8.30 pm Attempt to contact ex girlfriend again, still no joy.

9.00 pm Big Brother

10.00 pm Attempt to contact ex one last time. Cry.

10.30 pm Still Crying

11.00 pm Commit Suicide

2009-07-13T14:05:00.001-07:00

2009-07-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

The haircut with the unfamiliar Barber

2009-07-03T12:42:00.000-07:00

I walk in, I sit down. I immediately stand back up awkwardly, as i have been instructed to take a seat in the adjacent barber's chair.

'what can i do - a - for you sir?' the unfamiliar barber asks.

"er, number three at the sides mate, not too much off the top", i say, deliberately emphasizing the latter instruction.

"Ok mate- number three at the sides, not -a - much off the top," he says.

"Yeah thanks", I reply. "just not too much off the top".

I sink into the chair, paranoid and anxious. This man has the potential to make me look like an absolute prick. Being the owner of a cuboidal shaped head, complete with a throbbing six pack above the eyebrows, means any severe alteration to my hair line could result in a aesthetically abhorrent disaster.

I glance in the mirror, He glances at my reflection. Should I make conversation? Do i watch what hes doing? How do people behave in this barber shop? Probably best not to worry about it.

Gradually, yet severely, he is eating away at my hair with his butchering blades.

I become more anxious. Perhaps a number three is too short. Now that he has already sheered off the sides, my FA cup ears have become exposed: previously submerged behind buffon like tufts of hair.

The Barber detects my despairing look in the mirror. "Don't worry, it will look - a - nice," he suggests, in what i think is a Cyprian accent.

Fuck. Not only am I paranoid, he can sense it. I am a living, sweating paranoid mess. After attempting to to start a conversation about football to which he responds with complete disinterest, I give up any attempt to pursue a policy of detente. We are sworn enemies. I must just wallow in aggrieved, wholly awkward silence.

The top is being eaten into like an obese American child devouring the contents of a milkshake machine directly from the tank. Fuck. This is crucial. If the right amount is taken off, I will look relatively swarve. Half an inch too much however, and my forehead will become exemplified by the fact there is no longer a significant island of hair aloft its menacing protrusion to distract viewers from it.

"Not too much off the top mate" I remind the barbering bastard, clenching the steel arms of chair tighter.

"Don't -a- worry mate," The Cypriot prick replies. But its too late. Hes fucked it. I look like fucking Simon Cowell.

As he brushes my neck down, I wait for him to present the mirror behind my back of my neck so i can visually appreciate the damage this shit back and sides has impacted onto my ego.

"Ok?" He asks.
"Cheers dickhead," I think.

Why do they even bother to ask? Its not as if he can do anything about it if i correctly inform him the haircuts an absolute pile of shit. He cant glue the hair back onto my fucking head. My stormy look is more obviously apparent than a eight inch penis glued onto the end of somebody's nose, and the smirky look a waiting customer gives me doesnt help either. The region of my forehead looks as though it could span across the entire russian continent.

"Eight pounds please", he asks. I give him a tenner, reluctantly telling him to keep the change. Ten fucking quid. The going exchange rate for any individual eager to transform their appearance into a potato headed solider serving in the Vietnamese war.

Hang on now. Calm down. Maybe I'm just being a pessimistic, self conscious muppet. I take one last look in the mirror before i exit the shop. It's not even that bad. Perhaps a bit of hair gel will sort it out.

"SHIT HAIR CUT MATE!", a builder screams from a passing lorry as I step outside the shop. Fuck. My over exposed five head glows a lobstery red.

I cant even wear a hat to cover it up. I look like a prick in hats.

2009-06-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

2009-06-09T06:50:00.000-07:00

Tube Journey

2009-05-18T11:03:00.000-07:00

I was sitting down, waiting for the Tube pleasantly when some old bag started slurping noisily from her plastic tea flask. Slurping tea from a flask. What a fucking joke. I felt like pouring the contents of my Coke can over her fucking face. The last thing you need when the electronic board indicates you have six minutes to wait is some prune faced bitch slurping tea down her wrinkly neck. Studying her liver spotted face closer, I wondered if she'd ever slurped on a weighty portion of spunk, after suckling on a good ol meaty bone.

Then again, Did the older Generation ever suck on their boyfriends dicks? Popular culture would have you believe it was nothing but tea, scones, and standard missionary back then. Or perhaps i'm just being naive.

After enduring four more minutes spunk suckling audio in my ear, I got on to my train. Thankfully there was a seat. If there's anything worse than sitting on a tube for an extended period of time, then its standing on a tube for an extended period of time. Some fat tart sits down next to me, one of her fat talcum powdered ass cheeks pinning down the side of my Jacket.

With a strained effort I manage drag it back out from under her Ass, which is like trying to whip a tablecloth from underneath a Rhinoceros. What a fat fucking cunt. She was probably off to Sloane Square or something, given her expensive looking handbag and snooty looking face. You may be worth a few quid love, but your still a fat cunt. Can't even sit on the Tube without annexing an entire portion of somebody else's seat territory. Imperialism of public space.

I'm too busy staring at some sexy Italian looking bitch to realise we've already stopped at Earls court, and its time too change, so I just about manage to jump out as the doors make that beep- beep - beeping sound but my trailing leg gets caught awkwardly as I make my exit and I'm sent tumbling to the floor like a spasticated dinosaur, the sexy Italian bitch smirking in a discerning manner.

As I make my way to the next platform there's a man struggling to carry his pram down the stairs, and I feel compelled to help but i notice hes with some Malaysian girl so I cant be arsed with the pervert. He was smart enough to use the Internet to mail order a chinky girlfriend, so maybe he should have been shrewd enough to use the lift instead. Fucking prick.

The subsequent interconnecting journey is even more irritating than the spunk slurping granny as im flanked either side by German cunts, who feel the need spout deustch garbage directly into face as they attempt to communicate through me. Thier language is as ugly as a dog's arse, and it takes the fouth fleck of spit to wind me up to the extent that im forced to stand for the remaining half hour.

It was a good job I used my Dad's freedom pass, and therefore didnt have to pay for this journey, as the whole experience left me with a taste in my mouth like somebody had shitted there.

2009-05-18T11:02:00.000-07:00

2009-02-06T01:34:00.001-08:00

There are lots of nice things one can eat

2009-02-05T03:42:00.000-08:00

There are lots of nice things one can eat
Like Nandos, Mac D's and KFC.
Stuff it in my mouth, stuff it in my mouth, stuff it in my mouth,
Increase the waistline that lies down south.

2009-01-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

When nothing else mattered

2008-12-26T05:33:00.000-08:00

The best years of my life were when very little mattered except Sega Megadrive, bags of sweets and children's BBC.

Those days i could play Sonic the Hedgehog for 8 hours on the trot, and yet not even the slightest hint of boredom would enter my mind. My Mum said too much time playing video games would make my eyes square, but she was wrong. it made them boss eyed.

Back then i didn't even know what depression was. I just wanted to play Megadrive until my eyes crossed, occasionally pottering down to the sweetshop with a quid so i could stuff my face with delicious treats.

A mere pound meant one hundred fried eggs, or alternatively, four sour laces and eighty fried eggs. Then again, one could have three chomp bars, forty fried eggs, and six sour laces. A world of opportunities. Nowdays twenty quid barely covers the cost of a Nandos. Think how many penny sweets twenty quid could have bought.

Every weekend i'd be up at seven to play a whole days worth of sonic the hedgehog. Bang on. No need to worry about searching for a job, doing the laundry, or finding a bird. Furthermore, no manic depressive cry wanks. A six year old has no concept of such things.

A day in the life of a coroner

2008-12-26T05:26:00.000-08:00

8.00 am – Get out of bed, put on slippers. Brush teeth, wash Face. put on work clothes.

8.15 am – Breakfast: Scrambled eggs on buttered toast with tea.

8.30 am- Drive Car to mortuary

9.00 am – Inspect male, Caucasian corpse. 15 – 20 years old. Body and face badly decomposed due to legion of maggots eroding skin surface. Inspection of anal region reveals suspected cause of death: Large wooden stick thrusted into rectum.

10.00 am – Morning Snack: Cadburys Twirl and Yazoo Strawberry Milkshake.

10.30 am – Drive to Clapham Common.

11.00 am – Police present female Asian corpse, 20 – 25 years old, badly mutilated. Head severed off by nearby found hacksaw, whereabouts unknown. Suspected Cause of death: Murder.

11.15 am - Accidentally slip on foliage and tumble onto badly mutilated Asian corpse. Police laugh. Drive to Café.

12.00 pm – Brunch: Bacon, sausage, Chips, Eggs, Beans, Mushroom. Coffee and Cadburys Twirl.

12.30 pm – Drive to coroners office.

1.00 pm – Arrive at coroners office. Chief Coroner discovers bodily tissue from mutilated Asian corpse caught on shirt button. Explain foliage, tumble. Issued formal warning. Vending machine run out of Twirls. Gutted.

1.30 pm – Drive to Peckham

2.00 pm – Arrive at Elsingham Road, Peck ham. Forensic team at work in burnt out council flat. Presented to Male, charred body in armchair, age unknown. Ethnicity probably white, however now looks black. Suspected Cause of death: Fire

3.00 pm – Mid afternoon snack: Pack of rolos and walkers prawn cocktail grab bag. Oasis summer fruit drink. Snickers.

3.30 pm –Attempt to masturbate in Tesco car park. Spotted by loitering youths whom accost vehicle. Loitering youths view evidence bag containing charred hand on passengers seat. Youths run off. Pull up pants.

4.00 pm - Drive to Mortuary.

4.30 pm – Inspect body of Male, 20 – 25 year old corpse. Ethnicity Chinese. Body was not found by police until 3 months after death. Attempt to open mouth. Stench forces me to close it again. Attempt to remove victims T- Shirt. Rotting abdomen tears open. Maggots everywhere. Slight movement of neck causes eye to pop out of socket, followed by oozing puss. Cause of Death: Do not care.

5.00 pm - Drive home. Stop off at petrol garage en route. Ginsters’ steak Slice. Apple Tango. Twix.

5.30 pm – Arrive home. Make Dinner: Spaghetti Bolognese.

6.00 – 10pm – TV Time: Simpsons, Friends, Coronation Street, Top Gear, Faulty Towers.

10pm – Television X, pre bed wank

10.15 pm - Bed

2008-12-26T05:23:00.002-08:00

2008-12-26T05:20:00.000-08:00

The Best Dream I ever Had

2008-11-29T12:01:00.001-08:00

It must have been around eight in the morning when I found myself lost in a rampant sexual session with my girlfriend, Rihanna. Her perky tits were bigger than they seem on TV, whereas her squidgy, caramel coloured ass appeared to be melting like butter in my hands. After she climaxed multiple times simultaneously in a sweaty spasm, I removed my penis from her gushing vagina, and threw her to one side, effortlessly.

Getting out of bed, I glanced in the mirror. My body appeared to have sculpted into the perfectly preened form of Michelangelo’s David overnight, whereas my penis was had grown by fifty percent or so. that’s handy, I thought. Brushing my pearly white teeth, it almost seemed as though my five head had now reduced in size into a normal looking forehead.

Tucking my throbbing, elongated penis into my freshly pressed Armani boxers, I then proceeded to drape myself in an immaculately fitting chocolate brown Gucci suit, found among my well organised, colour coded, walk in wardrobe brimming with seemingly suave outfits.

Downstairs In my chrome designer kitchen, a fresh fruit breakfast sat waiting, between Jessica Alba’s naked thighs. ‘Morning David’ said Robert De Niro, my flatmate, also sitting at my expensive looking glass dining table, sipping coffee. “bet that’s not the only thing you’d like to eat between her legs”, he quipped, patting my back. I laughed. Jessica Frowned.

Annoyingly, the Top Gear team appeared to be stood around my Red Ferrari parked outside, gesticulating to each other in their familiar, dick-headed fashion. Thankfully, after swiftly knocking Clarkson to floor with a clean right hook, and setting Richard Hammond’s hair on fire with my lighter, they fucked off, along with the straggly haired third one nobody remembers.

Setting off in my sports car, soft leather cushioning my ass, fashionable dance music accompanying my journey, I was interrupted at a set of traffic lights, where a fellow driver politely informed me I had been dragging somebody along, caught in the spokes of my back wheels. Inspecting the problem, I discovered it was my ex girlfriends’ new boyfriend.

“Fuck off then,” I said to my ex’s new boyfriend, whose previously handsome face was now permanently mutilated from being dragged half a mile across tarmac. Off he scampered, limping badly from the clearly harrowing ordeal he had just suffered. Opening the glove compartment, I reached for a conveniently placed Cadbury’s Twirl, scoffing it down in one go. I then instantaneously sniffed half a gram of cocaine up my nose, readily waiting upon the dashboard.

Accelerating faster, beautiful women jogging beside me in tight fitting grey sweatpants, bulging breasts leaping up and down furiously to the rhythm of each step, I noticed Wembley Stadium now appeared on the Horizon, and my trim, athletic frame was now clothed in the full Arsenal kit, complete with matching red Nike Boots.

“ONE DAVID BENSON, THERE’S ONLY ONE DAVID BENSON!!” The 90,000 strong crowd cheered, as I tried my best not to develop a boner in my prospectively revealing polyester shorts. The hallowed turf of Wembley Stadium crunched softly under each of my steps as I tried to integrate myself into the ongoing arsenal attack.

Vieira had just done Frank Lampard, and was now pacing forward in strides towards the Chelsea gola. He then dispatched the ball crisply forward to Bergkamp, who with a majestic turn had just beaten John terry in defence. The ball was then laid off to me, goal gaping. “This is my chance!” I thought, before gloriously shaping up to score the winning goal in the Champions league final. I could feel the electricity in the air. The glory of becoming an all conquering footballing great was nearly upon me..

Suddenly my leading foot stubbed awkwardly into the ground, causing my following shooting foot to swipe at thin air. The groan of 90,000 exasperated men was clearly audible as I fell over myself in the nature of spastic; ball bobbling harmlessly out for a goal kick. “Wanker!” somebody from the crowd shouted.

Then I woke up.

You know you're a fat cunt when...

2008-11-29T10:14:00.000-08:00

You are on first name terms with the man from the kebab shop
You think about what to have for dinner while eating lunch
You notice which staff members work what shift at KFC
You eat doner meat even when not inebriated
You can hide various objects within your belly roll
You eat like a bulimic yet don’t throw up afterwards
You buy slabs rather than bars of chocolate
You know pizza delivery telephone numbers off by heart
You sweat while walking in the winter
You suspect that twisters have become smaller than they used to be
Your girlfriend/ boyfriend suddenly refrains from having sex with you