It’s Time For A Story / A Day In The Life Of…

As many of you know, yesterday was St Patrick’s day, like most, I decided to celebrate the day of a Saint by drinking myself into a stupor the likes of which even Boris Yeltsin could only have wet dreams about. It was the first St Patrick’s day that I’ve ever ventured out on…

“Odd for an Irish man living in Ireland,” you say?

“No shut the fuck up you retarded wind-bag, twat guzzling, cock fiend, it is actually completely normal to stay in on St Patrick’s Day, because believe it not the only country in the world who gives less of a shit about St Patrick’s Day than the rest of the world combined is Ireland, nobody here gives a flying shit in your mothers flying mouth about St Patrick’s Day and St Patrick can suck my sweaty unwashed balls.”

Anyway, back to my story: getting into town was one of the most horrific experiences of my life; I would rather juggle a fucking chainsaw with my sphincter while being fucked in the mouth by a giraffe with a penchant for aggressive and degrading sex than ever have to use public transport on a public holiday, especially on a public holiday that is really just a massive excuse for binge drinking and for asshole Americans to come to my country and wank to their ancestry that nobody gives a flying shit about.

I waited for 3/4 of an hour for a fucking bus, when it finally arrived some 70 year old dinosaur decided that as per usual her age granted her some magical whimsical right to do whatever the fuck she likes. There’s only one thing I hate more than everything, and that’s old people. Anyway the 70 year old smell merchant thought it acceptable to barge past me in her fucking elderly cretin mobile (she was wheelchair bound). Being the conductor of bile and hate that I am, I decided to give her a piece of my mind, much to the shock of everyone else in the queue, a queue which I had in fairness just barged into the middle of, but that’s neither here nor there and everyone can go fuck themselves.

After the initial shock of my lambastatory assault, and after she had gathered her trailing tits and vaginal frock from the ground she insisted she get on the bus first, and not only that, BUT THAT I HELP HER ON BECAUSE SHE’S IN A WHEELCHAIR! The fastidiousness of her audacity astounded me!

It was pretty much at this point that I decided she had just waved her right to live any longer, the way I see it, she’d lived long enough and in her current state was about as useful to society as AIDs is to homosexuals.

The queue of people stood in awe, children gaped in wonder and excitement, mother’s covered innocent eyes and gentlemen everywhere pee’d themselves while muttering something about the death of chivalry as I delivered the most ferocious upper-cut any woman’s cuntory canal’s have ever had the glory of bearing witness to. Children cried, women fainted, men were astounded, and Captain Falcon screamed in orgasmic delight as he masturbated furiously to a punch that dwarfed his own meager trademark ‘Falcon Punch.’

From that moment forth, it became universal knowledge that I am the destroyer of cantankerous old hags in bus queues, old women part like the Red sea for me now.

Having just wiped some lovely old lady from the gene pool I got on the bus, paid my fee and sat down. It was probably only about 7 or 8 minutes before my nostrils began to burn.
“What the fuck is that smell? God it’s fucking awful.”
I contained myself for a further minute or two until my nostrils were in such agony that even a pro of nose powder merchantry such as Jimmy Hendrix himself would have made a deal with the devil to escape the pungent wratheous smells that were waging a war inside my nose.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SMELL!” It was at this point that I turned around to the look behind me, some drunken fuck had selfishly decided to take it upon himself to pass out and have a diarrhoea shit fest all over himself and the three passenger seats he was now taking up. He started to vomit all over himself in his sleep, his vomit was an odd texture, milky and gloopy, looking like but unfortunately having none of the fragrant properties of a strawberry milkshake. It was comforting to see that people had rallied together to help, a couple of children poked him a bit and a young man made a joke or two to his shit ugly girlfriend, needless to say; I got off the bus, but not before taking a piss all over the homeless drunken fuck.

Let’s face it, who really gave a damn anyway? Besides, no matter what I did, the smell couldn’t get any worse.

I did eventually get into town by walking, which ruined my mood somewhat because it meant I had to both carry and drink a 6 pack of stella while walking, and let’s face it, nobody wants to be seen carrying or drinking Stella, let alone doing both like a complete plebe.

I met up with some friends, the usual friends I meet up with when I go out for the night, a crew of barely hominid creatures as lurid and disgustingly bile-filled and asbestos spewing as I am. We went to the Students Union, as most people know, Students Unions are little more than cheap drink fueled orgies and for the most part the flooring of a union will usually consist of a beer/tequila/sexual fluid/vomit crust that has slowly solidified over years of punks fucking each other in pools of their own vomit and shit, the smell of a Student’s Union is usually akin to that of ‘dead man’s sweaty balls’ and the bands that play there are usually the auditory equivalent of playing a little game I like to call ‘who can jam the most razors into their own ears, at the end winner pisses in everyone Else’s manged face.’

Anyway, I don’t really know or care how it happened, but I ended up talking to some 30 year old hag, she wasn’t entirely unattractive, and I do usually go for the more mature lady, or anybody with father issues because let’s face it, they’re piss easy targets, in terms of its difficulty level it’s like taking a dump on a midget (not very hard if you’ve ever tried, which shamefully, I have, but that’s a story for another day). I’m pretty sure this walking sex hole was engaged but I’m not exactly the kind of man who gives a flying fuck about things like that so needless to say I carried on in my debaucherous ways. As far as I saw it, she was looser than a prostitute who’d just attended the Annual Fister’s Festival in Hamburg, so she was fair game as far as I was concerned. By the end of the night we were fucking rampantly in one of the stalls of the Student Union.

This, my friends, is where disaster struck. I was pretty drunk, and when I’m drunk and fucking a stranger from behind, I tend to get a little enthusiastic, pumping harder than a giant tentacle monster in some Japanese porn, slapping asses, being degrading in general tends to become second nature when I have a drunken shag. Her arms were both against the back of the toilet wall, her knees sitting on the seat of the toilet (terrible positioning, but I had been feeding her on vodka for over 4 hours and she wasn’t showing any signs of making any real effort to help the sexual effort), as I was fucking her I started slapping her ass a bit, one of my slaps was apparently a little too enthusiastic, knocking the drunk bitch flying off the toilet seat into the corner of the stall, where she remained, in a drunken stupor, unconscious, half naked, drenched in other people’s urin.

This ladies and gentlemen, is pretty much where I shit myself (not literally), but here’s what my thought process consisted of at this stage,



“SHIT!!!!!! FUCK, OH JESUS, WHAT DO I DO!?!??! Oh, wait, she’s awake again, might as well finish off in her mouth…”

She was out for about 2 minutes, those 2 minutes, were the scariest minutes of my life, when she regained consciousness, I don’t think she really knew or appreciated where she was, it didn’t stop me from mouth fucking her mind you, and in hindsight, it probably wasn’t the most gentlemanly way to finish with her, especially since when I came I left her there in the stall alone and closed the door on her…

And that, is why I will never again venture out on St Patrick’s Day, that is why St Patrick’s Day is for Americans and cunts.


Of the elderly, duffle coats and Coldplay.

I’m not feeling too hateful today, instead I’d like to share with you my thoughts on the joys that growing old will hold for myself and many others of my generation.

I feel, there is one definitive, iconic, and infinitely irritating sign of ageing.

I call it, the “age related colour blindness phenomenon.” You see it all the time. People get to their 30’s, they look respectable, nice suits, some nice informal shirts and what not for going out. All nice respectable colours, blacks, greys, whites, sometimes they get a bit spicy with some beige! That’s for the adventurous though…

Then, something happens… They hit 40; everything goes to shit.

You know the start of the Old Doctor Who series? That really psychedelic intro… Yea, it’s kind of like that, only with clothes… It’s like they wake up one morning and say to themselves,
“You know what! I should dress the way Doctor Who sounds!”

They start wearing completely things generally categorised as ‘bat shit crazy’.
“Yea, yea, this turquoise jumper would go well with brown ¾ length shorts and a.. red.. duffel-coat…”

It sounds funny, but it’s not, it’s fucking dangerous. I reckon a good 15 people die as an indirect result of badly dressed elderly people every year.

You’re walking down the street and suddenly you’re blinded by a psychedelic wave of colour, your sense of smell overcome by the familiar scent of peas and moth balls. You try to shield your eyes, but it’s too much! The all too familiar theme tune to Doctor Who plays as an homage to your distress as you’re vaporised by a beam of bad special effects firing in rapid succession from each of the buttons on the red duffle coat that seals your doom…

That episode of course never made it to air…

In fairness though, I can’t wait till I get old, I’m going to be a complete miserable bastard, well, more of a miserable bastard than I am already.

I really genuinely can’t wait. It’s going to be fantastic. There’s just so much to look forward to.

I mean, first off, there’s getting to watch the people I hate die. That’s something I’ll enjoy.

Come home from work one day at the young, British working age of 82, hoping I‘ll make it to 100 so I can enjoy the benefits of my one year retirement, to find that Chris Martin has passed away…
“Aww, pity, there goes the last remaining member of Coldplay, THE MOST BORING BAND IN HISTORY!”

I think, if Hell exists It’ll more than likely be one big room filled with Coldplay fans waiting for a Coldplay gig. Coldplay won’t actually play though because it’s the only way Coldplay could be even more boring than they already are.

Coldplay: they don‘t really serve any real purpose to humanity, well, I say that, it’s not entirely true, I suppose, they do, in a way, serve as a fantastic argument for mandatory euthanasia…

Coincidentally, I hear the most humane way to go about euthanasia is just to talk to Chris Martin for a day or so. As far as their argument for euthanasia goes though, it’s right up there, along with Westlife’s acting as proof and the final argument that there is no God…

Chris Martin said, in 2004, “We really feel that we have to be away for a while and we certainly won’t release anything this year, because I think people are a bit sick of us.”
Oh Chris… If only you’d stuck to the plan.

He then went on to say in a later press release. That for their 2005 album, X&Y, they were “trying to release the best thing that anybody has ever heard…” Personally, I think the only way Coldplay could release the “best thing that anybody has ever heard” is if they held a press conference and announced their retirement…

That or if the police held a press conference and announced the sudden and unexpected death of all band members in freak cookery and DIY related accidents.

But yea, there’s a lot I look forward to in growing old…

Saving up my entire life… Only to realise that all my friends are dead… And that I have nobody to enjoy it with.

Getting on buses, just to see where they go, because I have fuck all else to do… And also, because all my friends are dead.

Farting and burping in public, because, fuck it, I’m old, I can do whatever I want! I’m above the law! That’s one thing I really can’t stand, I understand, yes, you get older, you lose control sometimes, but it’s the ones who do it, while they’re talking to you.

“Oh hello there, haven’t seen you in a while, how was your *burp* day *finish burp*?”

They never apologise, and it always smells like a slightly off Tesco’s value meal. That is if we could even define a Tesco’s Value Meal as a “meal,” rather than a “salmonella mystery fun pack” for the digestive system. Comes complete with free coffee! Made with the finest ground up bone powder of YOUR DEAD FRIENDS YOU MISERABLE OLD BASTARD!

…Yea… Anyway, while we’re still on the topic of growing old, despite my occasional tangents, There is one thing I really can’t wait for…

Pretending to have Alzheimer’s:

“Son, when, when did we get a parrot?”
“…We don’t own a parrot dad…”
“Of course we do son, we bought him on the Coconut Isle, in Tesco’s, from Chris Martin.”
“Ok dad…”

Now, the great thing about this, is that, the longer you pretend to have it, the harder it becomes to realise quite where the line between pretending to have Alzheimer’s, and actually having Alzheimer’s, is drawn.

Forgive me, Alzheimer’s is of course very serious. Well, until Grand-dad comes downstairs dressed in a pair of old curtains offering everyone something he’s calling “pineapple delight”… Despite the fact he isn’t holding any pineapples.

Published in: on 14/12/2008 at 4:33 am  Leave a Comment  
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