Cheese on toast

It’s simple, it’s square, it’s delicious. Just toast the bread and melt some cheese on top. Not hard, is it? But – I hear you say – for the love of god, what kind of cheese? Shut up. It doesn’t matter. Most ppl go for cheddar but ffs. Whatever. Go wild and splash a bit of Worcestershire sauce on your neck. Why not? Alright. Splash! Nice one. Do you want some fist? Yes, please. Here you go: BIFF! 10/10 would eat COT again. Now wipe your arse with a slice of bread and throw it at your mum.


When Cock Mom Gave U a Blow Job

The following is a word for word transcription of a text discussion that took place between players during a live game of Left 4 Dead 2 (Versus mode) on a public server recently. Some phrases may be obscure to those not familiar with L4D2.

The transcription begins abruptly because I began recording when the game was already under way, and it ends abruptly because my supper was ready and I quit the game shortly after.

Though there is nothing particularly meritorious about the following conversation, it is somewhat typical of those that take place on public internet servers, and I find such conversations morbidly fascinating.

My cock smells like poo: how does it feel?

My cock smells like poo: blacky


My cock smells like poo: ur a nigger and a loser 😀

My cock smells like poo: ^

BOOTYMAN: racist

My cock smells like poo: white power

BOOTYMAN: can someone on the zombie team votekick him?

Bewbew: ok girls, le’ts jst play

BOOTYMAN: bewbew

Action Bastard: go faggots

BOOTYMAN: u black?

Pink Virus: ignore

BOOTYMAN: hush boy

BOOTYMAN: not talking to u

Action Bastard: why would you hush?

Bewbew: you need to go Booty, you’re too lippy

BOOTYMAN: suck a dick

Action Bastard: no thanks

Bewbew: let’s go

My cock smells like poo: that’s ur job

My cock smells like poo: my dick needs loving 😉

Action Bastard: go so u can get this beating right quick

My cock smells like poo: come get it

BOOTYMAN: u lookin in a mirror


My cock smells like poo: lol and u are the black man

My cock smells like poo: 😀

BOOTYMAN: im not even black

My cock smells like poo: u sure

BOOTYMAN: im gonna die

BOOTYMAN: knew it


My cock smells like poo: die nigger

bandaNDIT: oh well

My cock smells like poo: owned

BOOTYMAN: I’m not even black kid

Pink Virus: stop it no one likes racist jokes

BOOTYMAN: you don’t even know what that word means

BOOTYMAN: much teams


My cock smells like poo: nigger 😀

BOOTYMAN: you don’t know wut it means kid

My cock smells like poo: talk shit and lose

My cock smells like poo: does not make me a kid

My cock smells like poo: bro

BOOTYMAN: clearly don’t sound like a 27 year old

My cock smells like poo: u just got owned

My cock smells like poo: and still talking shit

Pink Virus: dude u don’t even look white u look like fucking Mexican so why u stop racist joke cause I am out of here

My cock smells like poo: what does that make u

Player Pink Virus left the game

BOOTYMAN: a guy who talks shit to asswipes?

bandaNDIT: you guys need to get out more… other than when you leave for kindergarten

My cock smells like poo: LOL

Bewbew: I agree

BOOTYMAN: I’m 18 and I have a job

My cock smells like poo: 18 u cant even legally drink LOL

BOOTYMAN: I don’t see what’s wrong with that

bandaNDIT: you have no excuse then cock

BOOTYMAN: he doesn’t even have a cock

BOOTYMAN: probably got a rubber dildo eplanted

My cock smells like poo: I own you

My cock smells like poo: 🙂

BOOTYMAN: you don’t own shit

BOOTYMAN: probably a hobo who stole a laptop and it’s accessories from store

bandaNDIT: makes sense

BOOTYMAN: stole a wifi connection too probably

BOOTYMAN: dat down kill doe


Kicking player: Player ZahnDahn

BOOTYMAN: why ya’ll kickin?

BOOTYMAN: new people are still peopl

Bewbew: red rover red rover I call Band on over

bandaNDIT: ok

BOOTYMAN: I call yo mama over


Barry Manilow: nice

BOOTYMAN: dat charge doe

BOOTYMAN: he’s black and white

BOOTYMAN: attack him


BOOTYMAN: question

BOOTYMAN: could u kick da shit smelling cock on ur team?

BOOTYMAN: I’m gona transfer 5 bucks to the account of the person kicks him

My cock smells like poo: LOL

BOOTYMAN: downed

My cock smells like poo: ur in last place as well

BOOTYMAN: suck ur self kid

BOOTYMAN: learn to read the scoreoard kid

BOOTYMAN: scoreboard*

My cock smells like poo: u can’t spell

My cock smells like poo: LOL

BOOTYMAN: cock is weak

BOOTYMAN: u weak

BOOTYMAN: like a cock

BOOTYMAN: ur cock

BOOTYMAN: oh wait

BOOTYMAN: u don’t have one

My cock smells like poo: LOL look at the score

My cock smells like poo: plus it feels good to be 27 😉

My cock smells like poo: u can’t even go into a bar LOL

My cock smells like poo: 18 means ur just a punk ass kid

BOOTYMAN: I don’t see the pros of drinking

BOOTYMAN: all it brings is intoxication

BOOTYMAN: nothin good about that

My cock smells like poo: bet u cant even handle a beer

My cock smells like poo: ROFL

BOOTYMAN: I don’t even drink

My cock smells like poo: btw kid, 8 core amd, 7970, and 8gb ram

BOOTYMAN: dafaque u high on?

My cock smells like poo: xbox one aswell

My cock smells like poo: what now bitch?

Barry Manilow: lol what

BOOTYMAN: I beleive now u go suck ur mom’s dick

BOOTYMAN: badum chhhhhh

My cock smells like poo: makes no sense?

My cock smells like poo: moms don’t have dicks kid

BOOTYMAN: ur mom does

bandaNDIT: have you checkd?


BOOTYMAN: hahaoh

Bewbew: wtf girls

‘Zilla: yeah I yelled it

BOOTYMAN: im vid tapin dis

BOOTYMAN: straight to youtube

‘Zilla: wurd?

bandaNDIT: fun

BOOTYMAN: say hi cockhoe

Action Bastard: hurry up u shits

BOOTYMAN: u mad brah?

Action Bastard: can’t say I am

Barry Manilow: good times

BOOTYMAN: when cock mom gave u a blow job?

Barry Manilow: lol

BOOTYMAN: dat charge


BOOTYMAN: shove it

BOOTYMAN: 27 and ur skills suck donkey balls

My cock smells like poo: lol ur down again

BOOTYMAN: nigga I killed u

BOOTYMAN: u aint 1 to talk

BOOTYMAN: bill take my crowbar

My cock smells like poo: and ur dead

My cock smells like poo: 😀

BOOTYMAN: poo hobo shush

Movie Review: Into the Wild (2007)

Into the Wild is a film about what a great guy someone is, even though they’re actually a total dick.

The guy in question is Chris, a handsome, middle-class college graduate with a promising future ahead of him. Life is peachy until one day Chris’ life is irreparibly shattered when his parents offer to buy him a new car. What dispicible bastards. ‘THINGS, THINGS, THINGS, THINGS!’ wails Chris, making a scene in the swanky restaurant his parents have taken him to. ‘I don’t want a new car!’ So Chris does what any young man would do in such awful and oppresive circumstances: he burns all his money (rather than give it to, say, charity) packs his bags, and runs away – into the wild!

It’s apparent that the people who made this film desperately want us to sympathize with Chris, and maybe even fall in love with him. But it’s difficult when he’s such a pretentious, hyper-sensitive brat who communicates exclusively by quoting the words of highbrow authors such as Thoreau, Tolstoy and Gogol; a rare disorder that makes ordering a pizza over the phone almost impossible.

Anyway, starting off in Arizona, Chris traipses through various uninhabited landscapes until he meets a pair of hippy swingers who refer to themselves as The Rubber Tramps. The wife immediately falls in love with Chris, much to her husband’s annoyance. The wife, sick of her husband, gets in a mood and storms off down the beach. Chris catches up with her, and the two of them take their clothes off and splash around in the sea while the husband watches impotently from the shore. Afterwards, the wife feels guilty and pity fucks her husband in a tent. Chris can hear them doing it and decides to leave. When they discover that Chris has left, the hippies are sad. I think they were hoping for a threesome.

It’s made clear that Chris’ heart belongs to one woman only: Mother Nature. In one scene he cries because he sees some deer. In another, he spares the life of a duck he is hunting because he suddenly decides it’s adorable. And then there’s the infamous, inexplicable scene (cut in many regions) in which he has sex with a handful of sphagnum moss.

Later, during a sojourn to a town, Chris meets Vince Vaughan – played by Vince Vaughan – in a bar. They chant the word ‘society’ in unison 15 times, because it’s, like, society, man, and it’s all just, like, hypocrites and politicians, yeah?

Worse still is the scene in which Chris talks insipidly to an apple, and then suddenly stares directly into the camera for NO REASON WHATSOEVER. I guess the director just stopped giving a shit. I can’t say I blame him.

Then there’s a montage of jarring split screens in which a farmer shows Chris how to grow turnips. Seriously. Watch it if you don’t believe me.

Throughout the proceedings Chris’s voice can intermittently be heard spouting all manner of condescending, pseudo-intellectual, quasi-spiritual crap. Sometimes he informs us of what’s going on, even though it’s blatantly obvious. Occasionally Chris’ sister Nancy has a go at narrating, but she’s just as humourless as her brother. She just keeps repeating what a swell guy Chris is. All very tedious and sickly, not to mention false.

Astonishingly, Chris makes it all the way to Alaska before finally succumbing to a combination of starvation, pneumonia and food poisoning. Despite the fact that one of his few possessions is a handbook about edible berries, Chris somehow manages to eat loads of poisonous ones. Perhaps if he’d laid off the Tolstoy a bit and occasionally read something useful he’d still be alive today.

Into the Wild is based on a true story. I don’t know how accurate the film is, but if the real Chris was half as lame as the one portrayed in the film, then I’m inclined to think his demise wasn’t such a great loss for mankind. Then again, if he hadn’t died this nauseating film would not exist. So perhaps his death was a tragedy after all.

Eddie Vedder does the soundtrack, but it might as well have been Susan Boyle. The music is limp, whiny, pathetic, annoying. It suits the film perfectly.


Tea War

In Yorkshire everyone drinks Yorkshire Tea. They won’t drink any other kind of tea, and if you somehow trick them into trying another kind of tea, they will – the moment they realize they’ve been duped – spit it out and/or make themselves physically sick. If questioned, they will tell you that Yorkshire Tea is the best tea, the only tea, and that it beats all other teas which are revolting and downright stupid in comparison.

In Lancashire there exists a similar phenomenon, only the revered brew there is called Lancashire Tea. The fact that both brands are owned by the same conglomerate, and are in fact identical but for the name, is of little significance to the proud tea fanatic. Nor does it seem to matter that all the tea comes from India and is processed and manufactured in Nuneaton, Warwickshire, prior to transportation to the respective regions.

As it stands, there is a palpable, uneasy tension between the two factions, and no one is quite sure what will become of it. Will it one day spill over into violence and bloodshed? The experts say it is inevitable.

In fact, reports of tea-related clashes have been rising steadily since the smoking ban was introduced in 2007. The knock-on effects of the ban are manifold, as have been well documented in the sociological studies published by Gilbert & Ronson last year. Suffice it to say here that people are consequently drinking less beer and more tea. This may sound like a good thing initially, but don’t be so sure.

At a recent football match between Preston and Hull, fighting broke out in the terraces after caffeinated fans were seen goading each other with teabags. It was reported that the visiting Hull fans had produced a box of Lancashire Tea, and had taunted the home fans by setting fire to the teabags inside. The Preston fans had responded to this act of blasphemy by throwing whatever liquids were at hand at the teabag fires, in a bid to put them out. A small child was inadvertently drenched in hot Bovril, and mayhem ensued.

And in Burnley a church was raised to the ground last month after a box of the wrong kind of tea was offered as a tombola prize at a crowded bake sale. All three of the emergency services had to be called out before order was restored.

Folk who live in the Pennines that separate Lancashire from Yorkshire are caught in the crossfire. Unsure of which tea to drink, many have become double agents. They stock both brands and switch between them, depending on who comes calling. They hide their tea in a secret annex.

Recent plans by the responsible conglomerate to manufacture branded tea for every county in Britain has been met with widespread outrage. Legally, however, there is very little anyone can do to stop them.

Hence the government’s announcement of a top secret contingency plan to deal with the outbreak of a potential civil war. It has nothing to do with class, as various tabloids have speculated, and it has nothing to do with Muslims, as The Daily Mail conjectured. It is all about tea.

Watch this space for updates…


Greg the Peg

Greg the Peg (no relation to Jake) went to the shops to buy some plums.

However, when he arrived at the shops he had plumb forgot what it was he wanted. So Greg the Peg instead bought the first thing he saw, which happened to be an air freshener for a car. He didn’t own a car, so it was a waste of money. Greg hated wasting money, so he bought a car. He bought a red Ferrari. It was rather expensive, and cost the whole of his life savings. When the salesman in the Ferrari showroom handed him the car keys, Greg started to cry.

“What’s the matter?” asked the salesman.

“I can’t drive!” sobbed Greg. “I don’t know how!”

The salesman almost choked on his cigar. “Then why on Earth have you just spent all your money on a Ferrari?”

Sniffling pathetically, Greg produced the air freshener from his pocket and showed it to the salesman. It smelt of pine.

“No refunds,” said the salesman, chortling now at the amazing stupidity of Greg the Peg.

“Please,” cried Greg the Peg. “Please teach me how to drive!”

The salesman took pity on Greg, and quickly explained to him the basics of driving. He neglected to mention that it is illegal to drive without a license, as he assumed Greg knew this already. This was a mistake. “Never underestimate the stupidity of Greg the Peg,” the salesman would later warn his friends and colleagues.

The unmistakeable sound of the 800-horse power engine of a red Ferrari stopped the salesman in his tracks. He turned just in time to see the shiny front end of Greg’s red Ferrari half a second before it mowed him down, ran him over and smashed through the showroom window. The sound of screeching tires and Greg’s high-pitched screams faded away as the red Ferrari sped down the road at breakneck speed.

When the red Ferrari ran the salesman over, by the way, his cigar bounced off the windscreen. I would have mentioned that in the previous paragraph but I only just remembered it now.

Meanwhile, as the mangled body of the salesman bleeds out in a pool of fragmented glass, Greg is hurtling out of control towards the orphanage…

Find out what happens in the next exciting installment of Greg the Peg!

EDIT: Greg the Peg has been cancelled. There will be no further episodes.