Wednesday, 16 March 2011

It is on.

There were a few times, (whilst drunk or depressed notably) where I've needed some kind of output for my bile. And then I remembered for like a year and a half I came here to spout absolute fucking shite about everything from graphic novels to the biggest animal I could punt over a rugby post (a chihuahua if I remember correctly). I whored this bile, this sorry excuse for a blog and there were a small minority who actually enjoyed this shit, which made me happy. Then I ran out of ideas, people stopped reading and so I stopped. But I need a punching bag, so I'm going to be writing again.

Its been an odd few months to say the least. I've lost 2st, which is probably the biggest personal achievement since I downed a bottle of Peach Schnapps in Spain on tour with my rugby team. Granted I'm no Karen Carpenter, but I'm no longer looking like Tom Hanks with a glandular problem and Type 2 diabetes.
I'm currently typing with a right hand in bandages due to sparring at the gym. I missed the boxing pad and hit the trainer in the face, his face was ok, but my hand wasn't. So I have a Keith Lemon-esque bandage on. I'm just thankful it wasn't my left hand, because I'm left handed. Not that I need to write, but you know. Yeah.
My American friend from New York came over for a few days. I met him at Edge Hill Uni where he was studying for a semester here. We instantly bonded over jokes about paedophilia and Hooverphonic and that was that. I took him out round Blackpool with a few of my heavy metal mates, who enjoyed being regaled of stories about semi automatic rifles and how Giacomo Puccini was the rock and roll legend of the classical era. I have to say there was a strong feeling off trepidation when he came over to meet my Mum, this fear was realised when he made a joke about being deported for having sex with a 16 year old. Thankfully she just laughed, looked at me, I shrugged my shoulder, laughed and moved the conversation over towards how it was such a lovely day.

I'm determined to keep going with this, I've missed it like mad, and I'm desperate to get up to 3000 views. So I'll see you soon, and if you have any questions you want me to answer, just let me know, they'll be answered with either complete hysteria or by me just calling you a prick.

Love and Airwaves Black Mint


Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Hello and goodbye

I'm calling and end to this monstrosity. After nearly 3000 views its certainly been more popular than I ever thought. But it's all got a bit too forced and childish, I may come back to it, I may not. It certainly was lovely to have had so many views for something so trivial, but I'd like to start writing that means something.
So follow All Bases Covered, linked below, it'll still contain cock jokes, but interspersed with Ed Balls, a fantastic partnership if I do say so myself.

It's been a pleasure cocksuckers.

Love and kisses


Tuesday, 30 November 2010

At least after the 2022 World Cup, Qatar will have some cracking stadiums to stone women in.

It's been long madamemouselle.
Can't remember when I last posted. I don't suppose it matters anyway. Main news is that my bollocks contain the last remaining chance of continuing the Cannings family name. Now, there are a fair few Canning's about the world but there are much, much less Cannings' in the world. Call me a traditionalistic and favouring nepotism man, but I'd quite like to carry on the family name. The name comes from my Dad's side, my Mum's maiden name being Wilson. Which is HILARIOUSLY COMMON. A friend suggested that I pay someone to take my name, to carry it on as it were, but I don't fancy shelling out 10 pounds and a burrito to a 52 year old Mexican to become Jernandez Cannings. We're a hairy enough breed us Cannings' without getting the beaners (google it, it's friendly racism, like doing squinty eyes for Chinese folk) involved.

How do you kill Superman? Knock him off his horse and wait 10 years.

Wikipedia time.

Vladimir Vidric
A Croatian poet. Considered a major figure of the Croatian secessionist poetry. High praise indeed.
I've yet to write a poem I've considered above average, that hasn't got anything to do with mental illness, ex-girlfriends, pencils or that hasn't got a humorous edge to it. I've also written zero poems I've liked whilst sober. So I'm no Vladimir Vidric, apparently he died in obscure circumstances in a mental hospital in Zagreb. Happy days.

Patrick Scherberger
A comic book penciller, best known for his work on 'Marvel Adventures: Spider-man'. I'm reading three comic books at the moment. 'The Walking dead', which has just been turned into a fucking awesome tv programme. The comic is a good couple of tv seasons ahead, as it were. But just seeing it, so lovingly recreated onto screen, not missing out ANY characters, or tiny events, its absolutely fantastic and massive praise has to be given to Frank Darabont for it's success. I also read 'The Boys', which is an extremely graphic graphic novel, about 5 'superheros', or 'supes' as they're known, who regulate all of the other superhero teams in the world created. Simon Pegg is apparently a reader, and also on-board when it gets the go-ahead to be transformed into a series. and 'FreakAngels' which is an online comic, posted every Friday, and is pretty fucking awesome I have to say. Its free, and linked below. I started reading it 2 months ago, its been going for like 2 years, and I just caught up by reading from the start in one go, all in one big 6 hour chunk. Was an awesome night.

Enough of that.

My mum asked me what I'd like for Christmas. A month ago I responded with, 'an Xbox 360, Kinect and games', I have now swapped this for a years gym membership, I have no excuse with getting rid of this spare tyre and down to rugby shape once more, I cannot wait. But until the membership starts I'll be eating nothing but Haribo, peanut butter sandwiches and Worcester Sauce flavour crisps. I have lost weight recently, I can now get into my size 36" waist trousers and jeans, which is quite nice.

Straighteners. Somewhat ironically making you more gay.

Love and Bulmers.

Friday, 19 November 2010

Shouting 'Dad!' and crying at a tramp, just hoping that they'll cry back and whimper 'Son?'

Auf Wiedersehn, twats.
Oooooooooooh I haven't blogged for a while. The last blog was a guest post up on Liam Quinns, site Are You Reading. Which is basically a rant every week about something political, most of the time it goes totally over my head, but it's good to scan over it, just so you can copy his views, bring them up in public and seem really intellectual and that. The link is below, but I'm going to change it slightly so it doesn't work and annoy him.


It was my MOTHERFUCKING BIRTHDAY 4 days ago, it was fucking awesome. I went to see LCD Soundsystem, Hot Chip and Shit Robot live in Manchester Apollo. Best gig of my life, and one of the best nights of my life.
I was in tears when LCD played All My Friends ( and actually danced (ACTUALLY DANCED. ME. DANCE. I KNOW!) when Hot Chip pulled Shake A Fist out of their repertoire (
Just amazing.

Had a weird nightmare last night, first one in years, I've once again come off my tablets, but I know for a fact that I'll go back to them like an ex girlfriend on a drunken night. But yeah the dream involved having sex with staplers. Yeah I don't understand either. Scared the shit out of me though.
Going out tonight, I've always made a pact with my own mind and body saying that one night a year in November for my birthday I can make an utter cunt of myself, say whatever, do whatever and spend the rest of November ironing out the consequences using my own natural charm and wit. This is that night. So yeah I guess people who I think are hot will be told, people who are utter dog-gunts will be told "you are a complete and utter dog-gunt", then be told exactly what a 'dog gunt' is and where they can stick it. So be warned.
Right I'm off, Luke Woods has arrived on the scene from Manchester and he wants attention.

Have fun young padawan.

Love and finding out that Cumbria Uni has labelled b3ta 'Offensive and Tasteless', twats.


Wednesday, 10 November 2010


Whattup dogs. This is Joshua Cannings, most of you may know me, a few of you from Lancaster University will not. I've been asked to write a guest blog, and been given free reign to write about whatever may pop into my balding head of mine. I'm unlike Liam Quinn, in the sense that I hate writing about politics, recent events, or the current economic climate, I prefer to write about what matters to me, as the main thing that I matters to me, is, well, me. So let's get the shameless plug out of the way, if you enjoy reading offensive material, sentences that only pass for jokes in a structural sense, and the ramblings of a mentally ill 20-going-on-40 year old, then click away to this link forthwith;

If you don't, then it's probably best if you stop reading, and come back for the next harebrained half-baked political post.

Well then. It's been an interesting, if you're idea of interesting is having throat that's feels like its been Cillit Bang-ed, a headache that hurts as much as a sandy foreskin and bowels as leaky as the capital of Haiti. I'm always ill before my birthday, it's become a sort of rite of passage, Karma levelling itself out before the long weekend of debauchery that occurs every year around November 15th since 2006, when I was deemed old enough by my extremely lenient parents. I've been extremely lucky when it comes to family, we all share the same dark humour, and always trey to make the best out of a bad situation, declaring that the possible side-effect of 'being unable to ejaculate' due to the tablets I have to take, 'would save me money on condoms'. Now this would embarrass many children, but after a few months, nay, years of this, it becomes second nature, and learn to embrace it. So now, aged 20, I speak openly with my Mum and Dad about every subject under the sun, for both comedic and therapeutic effect.
I'm currently a third of a way through of No Shave November, which is a small challenge me and my friends do, which involves strangely enough, not shaving throughout November. I wear a, what I myself and only myself it seems, a fashionable goatee, of which I've had for round about a year now, and forgetting to shave it on the turn of November means that I now have a goatee on my beard, making me look like that I haven't shaved for 2 weeks. Now, I haven't shaved for two weeks. But without this little goatee shadowing itself through my beard by being longer than the rest of my facial hair, means that it looks accidental and not intended, meaning that I just look like a hobo, and not a man trying to try out a new look. The absence and awkward length means that I can't trim it, which ultimately means that for the next 20 days I'm set to look like Barry George when he left prison, or that guy tramp in Blackpool that always mopes outside HMV and Boots in Blackpool.
My appearance bothers me, now this may come to a surprise. But I cannot do anything with my hair. I hate it short, and I'm far too young, and even though I look 10 years older, that's still far too young to try out the shaven-headed look. The current length of my hair is, like my beard, that awkward period between needing a cut and too short to be considered fashionable. Or as fashionable as a teenager who is Number 2 on the Ludwig Balding Scale (a great article in The Guardian Website told me this last week) can be.
Currently there's 52,000 students, lecturers and bandwagon jumpers protesting against the increase of university fee's and the idea of scrapping various bursaries and loans and whatnot. I'm fully against the increase on fee's but I'm also dead against the protests in London. I don't think the protests can be deemed acceptable, when the chance of riots, injuries and in extreme cases, death, can occur. Take the G20 protests in London in '09. Ian Tomlinson was a passer-by who was not even protesting, when a member of police, pushed him to the ground in an act of cowardice, and, at risk of being backlashed, a lack of communication and feelings of anxiousness on the policeman's part. Mr. Tomlinson later had a heart attack in the same area, and later died. The G20 protests were mostly peaceful, I dare say much more peaceful than what will happen today, and the risk of having a repeat of such an appalling death is not a gamble I think is acceptable to take.
A quick look on The Guardian website has this from Paul Lewis, who has fled from the scene and violence broke out;

"Fires burning, eggs thrown, windows smashed, activists with scarves around their faces barricaded into the marble-clad lobby after exchanging punches with police, all to the chants of 'Tory Scum'. It feels like the 1980s here at Milibank Towers.
Baton shave been used but police have been subjected to a constant barrage of missiles, and at least two officers have been injured. Protesters have also managed to break a three-metre high window at the front of the building.
I can't see this calming any time soon. Someone has just turned up with a drum and bass sound-system. Police have also drafted in their riot squad, the Territorial Support Group. Helmets and full riot gear are out."

Good work guys.

Anyway, lets end on a high, with a shit joke. I hope I've been up to the usual high standard. Have a lovely day lemmings.

You can't rob a bank with a joke but you can silence a hooker with a gag.

Love and BBQ Rib crisps that taste weird.
Jc x

Friday, 5 November 2010

Fastening a series of holes together can make ideal netting

Goede avond mijn zakken van vocht en lef, waarvan sommige noem ik vrienden, en anderen, kamertemperatuur IQ'd haat zakken.
Dutch. In case you're wondering...
There's a lot of drama here in Lancaster. We had none in halls at Edge Hill. Biggest drama was when two chavs from another building infiltrated our flat for 5 minutes. Or the time the door broke and people were locked out for an hour or so. Or the time the flatscreen TV in the kitchen nearly came off its hinges. There's no flatscreen TVs here. It's like Kosovo. Slightly insensitive but that's how I feel. I'm having to use a broadband wire and a laptop that I had to pay for myself. What the fuck is the deal with that? Cumbrian FASCIST BASTARDS. I hope they can't read this. But yeah, a lot of drama here in Lancaster with the housemates and just in general really, not that I don't get along with any of them, or it's not fun watching, they probably hate my guts due to post-punk albums played incessantly and calling Luke Woods "a FUCKING JUDAS BASTARD WANKSOCK" really, really, really loud, for no reason in particular, just because he's going to see some guy that looks like Bung...(self controlled *snip*)
Took a tablet two days ago, heard a bit of bad news about an old friend of mine from the rugby days, got a bit upset and popped one.
4 weeks work down the drain. I can get off them I know I can.


Upper Woolhampton
A small village in Berkshire. I love the word berk. I hate wool. There's just something disturbing that I don't like about wearing knitted items, I know a lot of clothing I have come from the hair of sheep, but I don't mind it if it looks like a synthetic material, or its been wound into tight threads. Anything that looks like it's been ripped off a lambs back, dipped in good soaking of grey dye and hastily fashioned into a 40 quid winter v-neck and I won't wear it. Not for a political, social or cunty Morrissey-esque reason, it just itches like a bitch. Give me cotton any day, bitch.

Celeste (film)
Does any, when thinking about space, or celestial matters, and thinking about the grand scale of it all, get a little bit freaked out at the fact we're suspended, but no-one reeeeeeeeeeeeeally knows why the fuck we are. Or reeeeeeeeeeeally knows if (when) we could die by a "Third Rock From The Sun" opening credits style snooker style knock from Mars, potting the Earth into a black hole, making it the Milky Ways equivalent of a John Virgo "Big Break" style trick shot? Just me then?
Sing along, "Its only a game show, you better believe I'm right! We will be snookering you, snookering you tonight, BIG BREAK!"

The Sea Beggars (book)
There's an awful lot of tramps in Lancaster, we get the odd few in Blackpool, none ever in Fleetwood, but in Blackpool they make no effort whatsoever, a mumble under their breath, stroking their little dog every so often. Why don't hobo's ever have big dock-off massive dogs, like a Daschund or a big fucking Rottweiler, the nice Rottweilers before the chavs turned them towards the dark side. The chavs have took over so many things, we can no longer where tracksuits for general 'dirty work' wear, we can no longer wear checks for fear of being called a 'Burberry wanker' and we can't buy low-cost top-quality 4-litre bottles of cider without looking like I'm going to drink it all and then twat a grandma then piss on a war veterans grave. Just because I enjoy drinks that come in a large plastic container and have names that contain meteorological or geographical words, (for example, 'White Lightning", "Blue Thunder", and my favourite "Frosty Jacks") doesn't mean I'm going to harm OAP's. It just means I want to get drunk and save my money for pub quiz machines and a 16" Bellybuster pizza from Golden Star, Lord Street, Fleetwood (telephone number 01253 772773, you know you have a problem when you're on first name terms with your local takeaway).

Love and "Could I have Chicken Tikka Chicken, Pepperoni, ermmm do you still do that spicy salami? You do? Awesome I'll have that, how many do I have left? Right. Make it double Pepperoni then. Thanks Bill"


Tuesday, 2 November 2010

Are you a ferret?

f(x)=8x+4 walks into a bar. "Got any sandwiches", f(x)=8x+4 asks the barman. "Sorry" the barman replies, "We don't cater for functions".

I thank you.

Hello you clumps of mud on the white shoes that I call life. I'm procrastinating from the essay I have to have done by Friday. Plenty of time. I'm sure this is a different font from my norm. It looks bigger. Still not had any Prozac, even though I found a big 28 pack in my drawer. I opened one up and put it in some Coke to see what would happen. What does happen is that it fizzes up quite spectacularly. I'll be honest and say that I did take a little sip, just to see what it tastes like. It tasted like heaven, I could taste the bitterness of the white powder concoction that's enclosed in the green and yellow tablets and it made me feel quite calm. I'm starting to sound a little deranged and dodgy. But after being on the tablets several years you do get quite dodgy withdrawal symptoms. Ah well.

Random Wikipedia Article time.

Mr. Forbush and the Penguins.
Haha, what a great name for a film. It featured John 'My chest has just exploded' Hurt. I love the film Aliens, apparently they're making a prequel, which sounds like the worst idea in the world. I never see why they want to make prequels/sequels to classic films when it'll look, sound and seem totally different to the films of yesteryear. Just think about the film Alien. Think about the special effects. The grainy camera. Now, with the cameras and technology used now, compared to the technology used then, it'll look totally out of place, even more so seeing as they're doing a prequel to an 80s film. It'll look totally out of place and its bound to end up as a 2* film. Gutting. Lets move on.

St. Marys Beneficial Society Hall (Upper Marlboro, Maryland)
Jesus Christ, the picture of the hall on here looks more like one of those old-style whorehouses you see in Westerns than a Roman Catholic meeting place. My church in Fleetwood is called St. Marys. I was baptised there, had my first communion there, confirmed there, and even read from the scriptures there. During my early teenage years I was a full believer in God. Only because I had the fear of him in my mind. I only believed because I was scared of what would happen if I didn't believe, I was scared of what would happen if I didn't pray every night. At the age of 16 I realised that fear wasn't really how I should want to believe in a higher power, and if I was no longer scared, I no longer believed. Not that I don't want to believe, I'd love to have that sense of being watched over by someone of great power, but personally I believe that my family and friends could offer all the safety and support that I needed.
That, and the thought of going to church at 10am every Sunday and having to kneel down on what can only be compared to a method of medieval torture didn't really appeal.

1983 Congoleum Classic - Doubles
A tennis tournament won by a pair of yanks. My Auntie had, and still has, 3 beach chalets along Fleetwood beach. I had the happiest times of my childhood down there at Summer, and I remember at the age of 14 being asked to play tennis by a brown-haired girl whose Mum owned a chalet a few doors down from my Aunties. She was wearing a blue top, white skirt and had extraordinarily red lips. In a beautiful kind of way though. We must have played tennis against each other for a good 4 weeks throughout the Summer holidays. She was probably my first girl crush I ever had, we got along so well and the memories are so vivid still in my mind, its incredible. Surely the men who read this can imagine how great and on fire you felt for the first girl you really, really liked during your pubescent years. There was no sexual feelings there I might add, even though she was (now remember we were both 14 at the time so its ok to say this) disgustingly hot, it was just (in Bernard Black's words) I wanted her to 'be my summer girl, and in the Autumn, I'll dump her, as she was my Summer Girl'. Ahhhh. Nostalgia.

My brothers just got a tattoo saying "Carpe Diem", which I find ironic considering his epilepsy.

That'll do for now.

Love and Mr. Nice, the scariest, funniest autobiography I've ever read.