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.

http://www.freakangels.com/

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.

Jc

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.

http://www.are-you-reading.NoI'mNot.com/

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 (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2V_ZT-nyOs) and actually danced (ACTUALLY DANCED. ME. DANCE. I KNOW!) when Hot Chip pulled Shake A Fist out of their repertoire (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGfJ4shG4ak)
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.

Jc

ERIC PICKLES ATE MY UNI LOAN

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;

http://lifeinaglass-house.blogspot.com/

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

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.

RANDOM WIKIPEDIA ARTICLE TIME

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"

Jc

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.

Jc

Going Cold Turkey - An Idiots Guide to Prozac

Good Day Sir.

Haven't taken my Prozac for 3 weeks now. Been on them for 3 years. First 2 weeks went by absolutely fine, but I can feel my self craving one of those lovely green and yellow pills. I've never felt such a compulsion for something. When I'm impulsed to do my Obsessive Compulsive rituals its a totally different feeling, I get a pang of of anxiousness and my mind is constantly thinking over and over and over what I need to do to satisfy the compulsion. This just feels like (what I presume) what a smoker feels like when he craves for a cigarette. It's an odd feeling, and not one that I want to feel for much longer.

You get a little booklet with each prescription of tabs from the pharmacist or doctors. It's a fun read, for people who like to read about side effects anyway. I'll quote some choice snippets below.

WARNING

Fluoxetine (Prozac) can cause dizziness, drowsiness, blurred vision or make you feel less alert. If you suffer from any of these side effect, do not drive, operate machinery or perform tasks that require you to be alert. It is not advisable to drink alcohol whilst being treated with Fluoxetine.

Now. Lets make a list of of things that the lovely people of Generics (UK) Limited tell me that I shouldn't do, but I have done.

"..do not drive" - Forklift trucks at my last job down at the docks.

"operate machinery" - Aye, forklift truck, skinning machine, fish processors.

"tasks that require you to be alert" - Night porter at a 4 floor hotel. Meh.

"drink alcohol" - My bad.

Adults (remember the word 'adults' here by the way) - to treat the following conditions.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (that's me!)

The usual starting dose is is 20mg of Fluoxetine a day. If after a few weeks your condition is no better your doctor may gradually increase your dose if necessary up to a maximum of 60mg per day.

I started on 20mg just before I turned 17, and gradually increased up to the maximum dose of 60mg after a year and a half. The side effects, of which some were fun, and some were not, will be analysed later. If you enjoy detailed descriptions of the male anatomy, stay tuned for that one.

Children under 18 years old - The use of Fluoxetine in children is not recommended.

OH RIGHT DOCTOR YOU ABSOLUTE TOSSER. See, I've had problems regarding the fact that since I was 16 I've looked old enough to draw odd looks when going out with my similarly aged, but babyfaced friends. But the fact that I was put on the adults waiting list for CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) and Psychotherapy because my shitty prepubescent beard got in the way of my D.O.B. on my files, is absolutely unacceptable. But hey, it did no harm did it. Oh no, wait, it did.

Patients under18 have an increased risk of side effects such as suicide attempts, suicidal thoughts and hostility (predominantly aggression, oppositional behaviour and anger) when they take this type of medicine. You should inform your doctor if any of these side effects develop or worsen. Fluoxetine is not intended for use in children under 18 years of age.

I'm quite the hostile person at times, I admit, its just another reason to love me. And I have been known for oppositional behaviour, as most people are, so that side effect could seem a little vague. I cannot remember the last time I was angry or aggressive. I do believe that Fluoxetine did make me have a period of suicidal thoughts, and thanks to me and my mums relationship, she was told straight away, and it was swiftly dealt with, thankfully. Wasn't the greatest of times. I remember getting a McDonalds though, so swings and roundabouts. I remember someone mentioning that 'sanity is contemplating suicide every day'. Which I do believe to be the biggest pile of bollocks I've ever heard, and was probably mentioned by a tool like Noel Edmonds or Judy Finnigan.

Possible side effects whilst on treatment:

Very Common side effects (probably affecting more than 1 in 10 people)

- nausea (feeling sick). Taking your medicine in the morning after food will reduce the chance of this happening. I never felt this myself.

- change in sex drive or function. For example lack of orgasm and, in men, abnormal erection and ejaculation. I fucking felt this though. Every so often, my then-girlfriend at the time, could not get me to finish at all, I was loving it and everything and I was definitely feeling turned on every time but it just would not happen. I'd say for every 3 times I did finish, I wouldn't once. Annoying. Made me seem impressive though. Probably not. Maybe though. Nope.

Common side effects (probably affecting more than 1 in 100 but less than 1 in 1o people)

-lack of appetite. I fucking wish.

-blurred vision

-weight gain. I could blame this for a few extra pounds.

-yawning

-not sleeping well. Always had a dodgy sleeping pattern.

-dry mouth

-diarrhoea (ARF!)

-feeling dizzy

-sweating or feeling weak. Nope, always been a sweaty bastard, thanks dad!

-taste perversion. This made me laugh, just made me think of a paedophile taste bud.

-headache

-hair loss. I'm blaming Fluoxetine for my widows peak.

-feeling flushed

That's all for the booklet, apart from some of the later side effects which seem both weird and worrying. For example;

-abnormal production of breast milk in men

-hallucinations

-jaundice

-a prolonged painful erection.

Scary stuff. Glad I'm coming off them finally. Don't go on them, its not nice. Breast milk isn't attractive, trust me.

Love and a prolonged painful erection

Jc

Fuck it, I'm back in the game.

Good day beautiful people.

I've been crowing a lot and sighing deeply when other people talk about their relationships, whether good or bad, breathing in heavily, then breathing out and saying, "Well at least you have someone to argue with" or "That's lovely, I wish I had someone to do that with". After a good few weeks (read months) of doing this I've discovered that I've been incredibly selfish. I mean, come on, I'm at University, I have fantastic friends old and new, I have a lovely family that would cut off their own arm just so I could go on holiday (or something crazy like that). It's one aspect of my life that isn't perfect. Everything else is. I couldn't ask for a better situation to be in now. Moaning that I haven't got a girl on my arm is taking for granted everything good that I have now. Of course it would be lovely, but as a friend said recently (by friend I mean The Supremes), "You Can't Hurry Love".

Well that's enough shmaltz for a good year.

A friend of mine called Pippa asked me to do a blog about her, she can settle for half a blog or nothing. Now, she's a beautiful girl, but I wouldn't have the foggiest what to write about her. Half baked political views are overused, if you want half baked political views go and read Liam Quinns blog. AYYOOOOOOO! BLOG BITCH! The first thing that enters my mind every time I think of Pippa is the dog from Come Outside, a fucking awesome children's show featuring a middle-aged woman who seems like the ultimate Auntie or Grandma, a plane which is covered in multi-coloured dots, and a dog called Pippin which seems to get into crazy situations like being covered in flour (when they visit a flour factory) stealing a dock-off load of sausages (when they visit a sausage factory) or eating a load of flowers (when they visit a flower factory, more commonly known as a. Right stop there, I'm drunk as hell and I can't remember the word for where they grow flowers, I refuse to type it into Google, as that would lower my self-esteem further into the minuses. Jesus what is the word. FLORIST. That's it. I Googled 'Flower factory'. Shame on me). I loved that show, it was mental. Auntie Mabel was the woman's name now I think about it. She seemed well cool. The theme tune was quite sweet as well. I remember singing it on nights out when I went out with my best friend Greg in Fleetwood, one time even getting a group of other guys singing along, who obviously had similar memories.

Fuck I'm supposed to be talking about Pips. Right. Well looking on her Facebook she's been to a Ann Summers party, hosted by a very attractive girl as far as I remember. I liked her. Won't see her anytime soon so I don't mind putting that. Ann Summers is a scary place, I remember going in there the first week of Uni here in Lancaster with my newly met friends (who were all girls by the way), an incredible range of vibrators were on display in the furthest away section. The only mens comparison I could make, was that of a porn shop, which are held in the same values of sexual deviants and creepy old men. It seems a little one sided, girl power, and all that. If there was a men's Ann Summers set up selling very nice boxers and pants, and a little corner for jerking-off equipment, the BBC would be in uproar, the Daily Mail would explode, blaming immigrants and gypsies for such an uprise and Trevor McDonald would be wheeled out for a half-hour special examining such jerking-off equipment and shaking his jowls in disbelief. I totally understand I'm gibbering on, but I don't care. Right, moving on.

"I have a crush on the Geordie Hairy Biker" she says. Aren't they both Geordie? I know what she means though. They have a special quality about them that suggests they'd make a fucking lovely husband. Then everything else in her Info panel is all in jokes that no-one else would get or ever read. Lovely. That'll do for now I think. I have 22 dough balls in the oven that need to be taken out, eaten, thrown back up again then tasted for a second time.

Love and 11quid for two Red Bull and vodkas. Ridiculous.

Jc

Its The End Of The Blog As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

Hello urchins, lemmings, grunts and guppies.

On my last night out with my best mate Luke and Libby, my good friend from Uni, the subject of life's little pleasures was brought up, as Luke was compiling a list of small things that he gains enormous pleasure from. As well as being fucking hilarious ("Josh, I've thought of another one, when a sliding lock on a toilet door works really smoothly with no friction."), it made me think of my own little pleasures that I experience and have yet to experience.

I'll be writing them here, and it'll probably continue to grow for as long as this blog continues I guess, if you find it odd, then fuck off you're not welcome.

1. The smell of a freshly unwrapped DVD.

2. Pears.

3. Finding five pound notes in your week old unwashed jeans that smell of tequila.

4. (Luke is right) When a sliding lock on a toilet door works really smoothly with no friction.

5. New bedding.

6. The intro of 'Baba O' Riley' by The Who.

7. The intro of 'Mr. Brightside' by The Killers.

8. The intro of 'Thats Not Really Funny' by The Eels.

9. The first cider on a night out.

10. Multiple black/purple sweets in a bag of whatever confectionery (Be it Skittles, Fruit Pastilles etc).

11. Proving someone wrong using Google.

12. Barburrito Burritos.

13. Getting a text of the girl you reeeeeeeeally like. How fucking twee of me.

14. Claiming a fluke in pool as a trick shot 'you just pulled off'.

15. Days when e4 shows the later series of Friends instead of the older crap ones.

16. Days when e4 shows the older series of Scrubs instead of the newer crap ones.

17. Punching someone in the face. (Done it twice, both were deserved)

18. Finally remembering/finding out the name of a song you've been thinking about for weeks.

19. Taking wallpaper down and managing to get a big dock-off bit off the wall.

20. Winning an argument on Facebook.

It could very well be an end of a very short and unspectacular blog career. I'm starting to having to force doing these and that's not what I really wanted to do, I just wanted to write down what I was thinking about at the exact moment I started writing, and it seems that when I start writing the only things that are on my mind are either what I've done today, how my mind is being fucking mental as usual, or women troubles. And I don't think that this is really interesting. And if its not interesting to me, it sure as hell won't be interesting to you. If I can figure out a new way of writing or a new way of drawing up ideas to get my disgusting creative juices flowing, I'll continue. If the dregs of you out there can think of a way, let me know.

Love and Series 2 of Jackass was the best.

Jc

This beef is very beefy.

Alright you sexy, sexy, smart readers in opposite land.

I nearly drowned in apple juice today. I downed a good amount of Jucee Apple Juice leaning back in my chair, leaning right, right back so my chair rested on the radiator at what must have been a 45 degree angle, I lost my balance, put my right hand out to steady myself and got my Leeds wristband caught in the radiator piping. I then burped. Apple Juice came back up for round 2 versus my tonsils, and realised my body was stuck at a dodgy angle for as long as my wristband was trapped. For what seemed like tens of minutes rather than tens of seconds I was drowning and spluttering on a combination of sweet Vitamin C filled Golden Delicious Juice and my own spittle.

I felt like I was starring in a shit, fruit-drink based version of Final Destination.

My life flashed before my eyes. Actually it wasn't my life, it was the culture section of The Guardian website on my laptop (which was basted in a generous coating of Jucee Apple Juice after The Ordeal (which it shall be known as) was over). I can confidently say that my experience was on par with what the Chilean miners had to go through. FACT.

That's all I have to offer today. Auf Wiedersehn, shits.

Love and cider vinegar crisp particles at the bottom of the bag.

Jc

The Swearing Debate (or Why A Subtle F-Word Goes A Long Way)

I swear. Just in case you never noticed. Except for pub quiz machines and Internet pornography its my biggest vice, but unlike the other two its a habit that I couldn't and wouldn't want to break.

"Swearing is a really important part of one's life and it would be impossible to imagine going through life without swearing and without enjoying swearing...

There used to be mad, silly, prissy people who would say swearing is a sign of a poor vocabulary as such; utter nonsense! The people I know who swear the most tend to have the widest vocabularies!"

Stephen Fry.

I do think that context is a massive factor in when to swear, but just like a normal word, its a string of phonemes with certain connotations and meanings attached to it. Swearing is not a sign of a poor vocabulary. I would agree that someone who can't order a plate of Reggae Reggae Chicken Nachos at Wetherspoons without exclaiming that the waitresses mother prostitutes herself to Mexicans, does have a problem, and would most probably come back with a side order of spittle alongside the beautiful plate of crunchy Levi Roots infused chicken-chips.

As I think I've mentioned before, I've never sworn in front of my Mum on purpose except for one time when telling her the name of Quentin Tarantino's latest film. But I think that is just due to mine and my Mums bond, we're very close and that bond hasn't broken throughout my childhood. I would however swear in front of my Dad for 24 hours straight if enough alcohol is poured down my neck.

My latest work for University is a piece of fiction, in which the first 500 words includes the worst of the worst of all swearwords, the C-word. It was used for nothing else but for shock and awe, to get the message across that the character that the story deals with is considered a right wrong 'un. If I'd have used a "right wrong 'un" instead of the C-bomb, I'd have made the character seem like he's the latest Jack-The-Lad to enter the cast of Eastenders, instead of the paedophile and sexual deviant that he is in the novel.

I hope you've noticed I've not sworn at all throughout this. It seems tame in comparison. Was fun though.

Love and foxtrot, uniform, charlie, kilo.

Jc

'Happy Days' Actor Dies. Well that's not very nice.

Hello. You people are the Comic Sans in my typeface set of life.

The most valuable thing my Dad has ever told me is that "However hot, clever or perfect she seems to be, someone somewhere is sick of her shit." I have an innate ability of being able to be a woman's friend and nothing more. Couple this with a natural ability of women always asking me "Who do you fancy" either at parties, a night in, at a pub with friends, its either a large joke to ask a tubby man who he'd like to stick his tallywhacker in, or girls are genuinely interested. I feel its the former.

You have to excuse my maiming of the 'fairer' sex but I'm just in an awful mood. I think it could be due to my experiment to see the weirdest way I could take my tablets, I've had them mixed up with noodles, dissolved in cider, but have yet to stick them up my arse or snort them. If you can think of any other way to take them It'd be much appreciated.

JOKE BREAK.

Thanks to Gwen Stefani, I can now spell bananas.

Solitude. Its not for everyone.

I'd like to thank my mate, who looked up "Agglomeration" for me in the dictionary. It means a lot.

I had a (sort of) date yesterday, which went down as well as a clown at a hospice, lovely girl but we're totally different, and the whole issue of me being a total mentalcase hadn't even been brought up. "But it isn't a big deal Joshua', I hear you cry. Yes it fucking is.

As much as I miss Edge Hill, and as much as I wish I was still there, I feel more 'at home' in Lancaster. It doesn't feel like I'm on holiday constantly, it just feels like I've moved out and I'm now living here. I honestly don't know why. I've made some great friends here, people I can have a drink with and can put up with my twattish ways, but I do feel like I could stay here for a very long time. I've yet to visit my old housemates in Ormskirk, which I can't blame on anything else but laziness. I just hope they'd still like to see me really.

I'm off, I got Strongbow to drink and sorrows to drown. ENJOY YOURSELF.

Love and Gang Of Four.

Jc

If a man hopes to throw a six in a game of dice and succeeds, we would never say he threw the six intentionally. If the same man puts a bullet in an otherwise empty six-chambered gun, spins the chamber, and points it at his enemy, and shoots the enemy in the face, we'd say he killed his enemy intentionally. Would this same theory apply if the enemy became the mans offspring?
He rolls the dice, which hangs in the air for what seems an improbably long time, finally hitting the white baize and landing up on the number two. Its two black spots as dead to the world as the man who rolls it. The man's eyes well up with tears as the plastic opaque medical cot is wheeled away by an anonymous male, through scuffed, well-used porter doors as the crying man walks out the room through the doors opposite. Ten seconds later a woman's wail is heard. The black jacketed dice dealer sits behind the white baize table and scoops up the dice with clean-cut fingers. It was a controversial decision to introduce such a cliched set-up into the wards of the maternity ward, but even more controversial was the new governments population control.

You ever hear of the Hindi saying, "Hum do, hamare do"?

It's a slogan used in India to promote and reinforce the message of population control. Its meaning translates as "One family, two children" in English. Sadly, for most of the English speaking population nowadays, its a case of one child to one family. The population in Europe had increased threefold since 2012, in America the official figures had doubled, but just like Chinese governments denial of the infanticide of newborn girls in the 1990s, the American government couldn't cover up that it was a secret everyone knew, and the figure was at least double the 'official' given out.

The dice dealer takes out a finger-thick wad of paperwork which hits the baize with an echoey thud. The room is white, with a frightening amount of yellow blotches on the walls and floor. The walls are pock marked with reminders on the NHS's policy on the fight against germs, which at best seem sarcastic and at worst, offensive. Against the pitch-black jacket he is wearing, the dice dealers skin is perfect, artificial looking almost. He grimaces to stand up, contorting his face into wrinkles not dissimilar from a Sharpei dogs. He was a social outcast because of his job, there were no pro's to the profession, the door was never held open for what the public call a 'dealer of death', he was the governments fall guy. He had no power over who lives or dies and he made no contribution to the governments overall decision for such an extreme measure of population control. The jobs for what the government called 'Population Control Draft Controllers', of what the media called 'Dice Dealers' and of what the man on the street called 'absolute cunts' were given to repeat offenders of non-fatal sexual or non-sexual crimes. For the man on the street this meant that the 'absolute cunts' who pushed the button on who lived or died could have committed arson, he could have perverted the court of justice or he could have committed sexual assault on a minor.

The well scuffed door opened inwards to reveal another plastic opaque medical cot with another anonymous male. The Dice Dealer surveys the cot for the infant, his plastic-looking skin bouncing off the light given off by the cot, making his face one that the child would never forget, however long the child lives for.

"Time of its arrival?", the Dice Dealer had a Southern London accent, one that in this day and age is rarely heard of. It was sharp and uncaring.

"12.29am", the anonymous males accent was forgotten as soon as his lips had gone silent.

"It's name?"

"Adam Trout"

A figure appears in shadow form on the frosted plastic window of the door, the entrance opens and we learn less about the man who enters before the door was opened. He's visibly nervous, and looks like a young William Shatner.

The Dice Dealer smiles, "You look like William Shatner"

The man who entered stands staring at the cot containing his newborn son.

"You look like William Shatner", the Dice Dealer repeats.

The man looks up towards the smiling black-jacketed Dealer, his face evolving from one of sorrow to one of astonishment, "Get on with it."

Sneering but clearly taken aback, the Dice Dealer starts to read out the necessary Government Paperwork explaining the rules.

The humble dice was chosen after it was decided that other lottery systems were both impractical in time and in 'ethics'. It was said that if the lottery was based on a system like the Premium Bonds, attachments would have been formed between the offspring and parents by the time the paperwork and results had been drawn. A National Lottery type machine was considered untrustworthy. A roulette wheel, too complicated for such a simple result. A flip of a coin, too easy to manipulate. A dice thrown by the parent was seen as an ideal way of 'passing the buck', the parent having to accept responsibility for his own actions, even though the action was being forced upon him. The only requirement of the parent in throwing the dice is for it to hit the end panel of the baize closest to the Dice Dealer.

"Do you understand the purpose of the actions you are about undertake and accept responsibility for the outcome?", the Dice Dealer became pokerfaced. His lips pursed and his eyes locked on with the William Shatner lookalike.

"I don't have a choice in the matter though do I"

"Bluntly, no.", the Dice Dealer said, bluntly.

"Do you gain satisfaction in this job?"

The Dice Dealer didn't look up from his pile of documents, "I don't have a choice in the matter"

The parent takes the pen off the baize and scrawls a shaky signature on multiple pieces of paper.

The baby in the cot started to wake. Gurgled. Screamed. The parent took a step towards the cot, the anonymous male who brought the cot in stepped forward with a firm grip on a standard issue revolver in his back pocket. William Shatner took a step back towards the baize. The Dice Dealer finding the whole situation amusing, reverts back to his smirking face that we've seen before.

"I'm sure you understand the rules and regulations, but I'm under orders to ask if you if you do not," the Dice Dealer reverts again back to his status of Population Control Draft Controller. As much as he is reviled, he seems to take great satisfaction in his job. We learn later on that he has three convictions of public indecency, two counts of sexual abuse and was on trial for the disappearance of a 13 year old boy.

The Dog From Come Outside.

Alright fuckos. Long time no speak.
Been an odd week. A good odd week, the main thing that I've learnt is that a chicken would most probably beat a normal sized crab in a fight.
Blog over. Nah fuck it I'll tell you what I did this week seeing as your dying to know. Who the fuck reads this shit by the way, I really really want to know. Like you wanted to know who'd gone on your Myspace profile when you were 15-16. That egotistical, self-obsessed part of us all really wanted to know who cared what changed profile you had and that your background has changed from Mauve to Burnt Orange.
This week I went to an 80s Fancy Dressed Party (capital letters are needed, as this indicates importance (I think)), in a Sex Pistols t-shirt that had an album on it that was out in 1977, 2 other people had made this mistake but thankfully I was in 'Arsehole' mode for me to point it out to those people. I wore some shorts I'd made out of some charity shop jeans, of which when I said to the charity shop woman I was chopping them up, she was not best pleased I have to say. Her face dropped like she'd just found out they'd found a baby twin inside her. I should know such face.
Then it was Senor Oliver Wrights 20th birthday party. He's one of my oldest friends, I've only known Olly Spearpoint longer and that was because both of UNSERE FAMILIEN had lived in DER FATHERLAND during 1992 to 1994 in the same concentrati...I mean Army village. My humour really has developed into a similar standard as Jim Davidson. Anyway, to celebrate the fact that Olly hadn't died for another 365 days, we did what most 19-20 year olds love to do and play Monopoly and watch X-Factor. A mate of ours watches it so whilst he watched it I decided which order I'd kill the contestants and made up questions like "Would you have sex with Simon Cowell, just so you could have sex with Cheryl Cole", we found out that you could still replace "Simon Cowell" with "Dannii Minogue" and still receive the same answer. Which is "No".

I'm going to go as I cannot think of anything to talk about, I may do the old random article Wikipedia and talk about something good that comes up later, it always raises a smile. One smile. From my own ugly smug face.

Love and Pavement, an under-rated band.

Jc

I've always felt inclined to change the gradient on my treadmill.

Hello people, I hate you so much I wouldn't piss down your neck if your lungs were on fire.
Getting my loan tomorrow. Well. The Glaswegians on the phone said that it is. The Glaswegian people who are so ugly they make John Carpenters The Thing capable of making people garner erections. I hate them. I'm off for a big shop tomorrow if it does come in, I'm going to buy a few cd's, dvd's, clothes, books, and a fuckload of food. Can't wait. I'm off to the Trafford Centre as well next weekend with my Mum and Lukey Woo.
I have nothing to write about at all. Lets write about the first thing that comes up when I Random Article Search Wikipedia.

2000 FIA GT Estoril 500km - Fuck that shit.
Cutting Ball - A murderer. Meh.
Friends (season 6) - Fuck it, right here we go.

'Friends', the show annoys me. It's watchable yeah, but its distorted my view of New York so much I want to live there, even though I know that in the first 6 months I'd get mugged, stabbed, eaten by tramps or something equally as plausible. The BIGGEST thing that pisses me off about sitcoms and TV in general that it doesn't portray real life accurately. Take 'The Inbetweeners', every fucking week Facebook is inundated with statuses and pages saying 'My life is just like an episode of The Inbetweeners'. No it fucking isn't you tool. I understand that people who mass talk about a show is just as annoying as people who complain about the people who mass talk about a show, but I've never said that I'm not a hypocrite, and I know for a fact I've got more IQ in my wanksock than they have in their cabbage-for-a-brain.
I suppose if they did make a show which was exactly like someones normal life, it would be neither funny nor interesting. Oh no, wait, THATS A LIE. Can anyone actually say that the funniest moments in their life come from watching a performance of any kind, whether it be TV, Film, Live Shows? I'd be quite sad with my life if I could answer yes. Of course, such performances are hilarious, the funniest thing I've seen on TV ever is from an episode of Shooting Stars with Angelos Epithemiou, but even that doesn't compare with that time in Secondary School when I kicked a football really hard and it hit someone square in the head, making this guy drop his sandwich, come running over to me demanding money for another sandwich whilst I was on the floor in tears, sides hurting from laughter.
Another example, funniest live show I've seen is Bill Bailey live at the MEN Arena, but that doesn't compare to the time my mate Greg threw a half full (ooh positive) can of cider at a girls face.
Ok, Ok, both these examples involve something hitting someone in the face, its lowest common denominator humour, but these are the examples that anyone would come up with. No-one would name a political, satirical conversation they had with a close friend as the funniest thing they've ever witnessed. It would always, ALWAYS, be it Harold Shipman or Nelson Mandela, come down to something making physical contact with something else, whether its man hitting floor or child slapping its own face by accident with baby food.
Or in the case of Harold Shipman, a needle jabbing into an arm of a 75 year old woman. Oh, Harold, you and your CRAZY ways.

Love and Art Brut.

Neither funny nor interesting.

Whattup you clumps of powder in the Pot Noodle of life.
I'm hungover, went out in Manchester last night with my best mate, my two uncles and a group of my uncles mates who are all either teachers, highly paid business sector workers and one guy who works at sea 8 months on the year and has a fucking nice salary and a fucking nicer car. Highlight of the night was getting into an overcrowded club called Mojo's because a guy who was with us teaches the doorman's daughter, getting a VIP booth in Prohibition because my uncle is mates with the cage fighting bouncer and mine and Lukes Funsaver disposable cameras, of which as soon as they're developed I'll stick them on here digitally and will do a piece about them.
We got some classic pictures.
Loan company let me down, which isn't much of a surprise but they've said its due to be in my account for Tuesday. I'll be buying tickets for Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster (psychobilly of the highest order), Hot Hot Heat (American Garage Rock of the highest order), Phill & Phil's Perfect 10 (Live Podcast comedy of the highest order) and tickets for the Grimm Up North Horror Festival (Horror Film Festival of the only possible kind).
Jesus I felt rough this morning. I slept on Lukes floor in his room, his carpet I'm pretty sure is made out of recycled barb wire and Lego, it was itchy and pointy and hurty, I woke up feeling I may need to have a tetanus jab to be on the safe side. Luke woke me up at 9am as he's always up at the horrific hours of the morning. So I waited till he was in the kitchen and stole his bed and slept in till midday. Awakening again, I led up in a pool of my own sweat it was that hot, something that Luke I'm sure will not be happy to find when he gets into the bed tonight.
Ah well, he's in Manchester and I'm in Lancaster so he can't do NOTHING. Was awesome to see him. I miss the guy, he is my best, best friend after all and he does far too much for me. I repay him with alcohol and pretzels though so its a fair deal.
I'm off, I'm tired. This wasn't that funny I do admit, but throw me a fricking bone, I feel like I'm dying. Read some of the older ones for laughs. They're good, honest. People said so.

Love and Barburrito, heaven on Earth.

Poetry Corner. And Chicken Korma sandwiches.

Could I Ever Love A Fascist? (An Ode To Nick Griffin)

You’ve got a perfect smile but an evil mind,
You’ve got a national front and a cute behind.

I’ve got a nice apartment where we could head down,
You’re so much sexier than Cameron or Brown.

Give up the violence and the race hate and citings,
So you and me could have a romantic night in.

My girlfriends ok but I know you could match her,
Would you be up for a threesome with Thatcher?

I don’t agree with your policies on national immigration,
But I hope I can ignite your man love celebration.

FIN.

Hello you cracked egg shell in the albumen of life. Hows things in less awesome places? How I thought they were. Less awesome. I never want to confuse feeling in a happy mood with being in 'that' kind of happy mood. As soon as I feel any kind of over-joyousness I start to worry it could be a sign of things to come, as a big high is sometimes followed with a big low. I don't want to sound pessimistic, but it's such a big weight on my mind the whole time its hard to put it to one side. The four ways I can sort of judge whether or not I'm feeling happy, or feeling 'happy-happy' are listed below, in details which may or may not be humorous/boring/of such gory detail my close family and friends will not be able to look at me in the same way again.

1. Increased appetite.
I eat much more as normal, this constitutes to either packs of sandwiches on comparably high scale as the amount of Nightmare On Elm Street films, and calorific content that would put Joey Chestnut to shame.

2. Stupid amounts of money lost.
Money is frittered away without a care in the world, 'Ooooh a dog with its face caved in, I'll offer you a tenner, and my lovely shoes', is just one fictional example of the stupid things I'll buy.

3. Increased wants for sexytime/ladies.
Now this is one thing I love about being in this mood, the only two relationships I can say I've had, have come about because of a high mood. I'm scared of asking girls out or saying to them how I feel, but in this mood I just seem to lose my inhibitions and just go for it and ask them. Wants for sexytime go up. Less said about that the better. Move on. MOVE THE FUCK ON.

4. I drink like a motherfucking alcoholic fish.
Water, Cider, turps (not turps), Apple Juice, Smirnoff Ice, Creme de Menthe, turps (not turps), Aftershave (I've drank Aftershave, that was a fucking awesome night at my house, it was Yves Saint Laurent, I mixed it with vodka, half and half and tried to set it alight, it worked for like a split second. I smelt like Peter Stringfellow for a month). My God, I drink lots of fluids. Not that though. MOVE THE FUCK ON.

I'm going to go, I'm reading a Wikipedia article about Holocaust Deniers, not because I agree, I despise the people who do, but I was reading about Justin Fashanu and it seemed to link after a few clicks. I'm not saying the late, great, homosexual footballer Justin Fashanu denies the Holocaust, but 3 clicks on links is all that separates.

Love and AWOOOOOOOGA! (Thats John Fashanu not Justin Fashanu)

Jc

Crunchy Nut Boredflakes

Hello non-drunk people.
People should talk more when they're drunk. Not about people they love, people they have loved or people they will love. Just truly about themselves. I try my best to do this, hoping that people will appreciate this. And hopefully go forward and do the same. This seems extraordinarily egotistical of me, but I'm drunk, so what do you expect. I'll try and delete this in the morning, but the egotistical imp at the back of my mind will overrule me, and here it shall stand forever, a testament towards my never-ending drunkenness and big-headedness.
It's always a two way feeling seeing a friend getting so along with someone of the opposite sex. The guy I was out with tonight, a great guy I hope to be friends with a long time after this seems to be a magnet towards vagina. I seem to be the equivalent to cardboard in the magnetic-vagina stakes. I try my darndest, I tell thee, I reall do. But when I dance I seem to look like I'm having some sort of epileptic fit on the dance floor, a look like I'm trying to shift an invisible wardrobe. It's impressive to see I have to say, the speed and accuracy at people seeing to 'pull' women. It seems like it should be showcased on 'The Real Hustle'.
I got started on tonight, some guy mouthing about my moustache, saying it belonged in the 1970's. I just laughed in his face so hard, its always a good tactic, just try and show them that you're genuinely mentally ill. I suppose that tactic works even more when you actually are mentally ill, like myself, but the look on the guys face as you laugh pulling a horrendously happy face in his direction makes the awkwardness worthwhile. I'm satisfied in the knowledge if it did come down to fisticuffs he was so small and puny I'd punch him so far into next month he'd be able to give spoilers for next months Eastenders. The absolute wankshaft. If you're reading this, I'd happily have a fight with you, I'd even give you an advantage of having your fat'ass mum in the ring for me to slap about beforehand.
I'm about to be sick very soon, so I'd best go. Apologies for spelling/grammar mistakes, its too late for me to check so I'm sure the 2 or 3 of you that actually read this will be able to read it regardless.

Love and Shagga's, the worst cocktail name in the world.

Jc

Hog Lumps and Pig Snacks.

Seeing people jump off the top of the World Trade Centre was appalling, but at least the Weather Girls got their wish.

That joke was brought to you by the year 2001.

Hello you 20mg of Fluoxetine in the life that I call life. I'm finally running out of ideas, well, less that, more that's the first thing that I came up with and its an unwritten rule that I never go back in the blogs except for libellous statements, things I've written my Mum would disown me for and the red squiggly line of death that I've mentioned in the past. I think I've found a sport that I want to play. Less play, more take part in, as I'm pretty sure if I went into a boxing gymnasium and shouted 'LETS PLAY' they'd kick my face so hard I'd be the first human example of a wellington boot. I'd say a forte of mine is dishing out a punch. Taking them, not so much. But I'm sure that can be rectified. I quite like the idea of me being a failed boxer with Parkinsons who beats his wife when he's reached 45. I don't think that's going to happen though. I don't think I'll get married.
I'm too much of a pain to live with, what with my crazy brain and bad toilet habits. I see a bed less of a place for sleep and sex than a place where I can fart without having any of that awkward social stigma. I'm the kind of person who'd feel no shame in eating the last Muller corner or drinking that bottle of Dom Perignon champagne because its the last in the series of House on TV, the bottle of which the wife was saving for when the kids left for Uni.
I wouldn't say I was a tosser I'd just say I had higher priorities, I'd much rather make sure my current family were secure and happy and safe, than bombarding a woman and kid on the current family, of which my Nan wouldn't approve of her because she once flashed a breast on North West tonight when she was 22 and wouldn't approve of the kid because his first word strangely sounded like the expletive 'Wankshaft'.
I'm talking shit. Right I'm off. Off out in a night in Preston tonight, should be awesome, I'm on the sambucas and red wine, I'm going to feel like a Division 1 WAG.

Its only a matter of time until a monkey's going to come out writing the whole works of Shakespeare what with China's birth rate reaching 3,450 children a day.

(I don't know if that's funny, but it made me laugh when I thought of it)

Love and the realisation Dark Chocolate digestives taste better than Milk Chocolate digestives.

Jc

I'm going to punch you so hard you lose 12 quid.

Whattup you orange flavoured sweets in the Fruit Pastille bag I call life.
Not done much at all, got my 'crazy tablets' today, which means I'll stop going out and killing for a couple of weeks. Sent off my final Student Finance form super-special delivery in the hope of receiving the loan in time for the weekend. If it does come by the weekend I plan to go off to Manchester and see my best mate Luke Z. Woods. He'd better not have changed into some twat. University changes people. I just hope he's still the quiet little tubby guy who gets along with everyone but still feels awkward in social situations that I know and love. Can't wait to see him. Will be nice. Jesus I'm making it sound like I want to fuck him.
I was asked a question by a friend, would you rather have the head of a horse or the arms of a T-Rex. I've been thinking about it and I'd have to say arms of a T-Rex.
1. Because you'd have fucking awesome strength.
2. Because I think contrary to popular belief you'd still be able to get away with a quick hand-shandy.
3. I'd always be in fear of people coming up to me and starting to ride me if I had the head of a horse, if someone started on me with T-Rex arms I could shoryuken that bitch.
4. I don't think I'd be able to fully scratch every area of my horse head with human arms and hands.

That concludes the conclusion.

Will write a bigger post tomorrow, this was just a stop gap I guess because I was bored. I don't even know if that last sentence made sense but as long as the red squiggly line of underlined death comes I'll keep writing and carry on.

Love and the word 'cocksure'

Jc

Weight Wheyt Wayt Wait

Alright. Yeah that's it I can't think of a witty entrance.
I remember when I saw I got accepted for a place at the University of Cumbria, Lancaster campus, I had a look around for an Ice Rink, preferably where there was a Ice Hockey team that were coaching new players. I found a place, looked awesome, the Lancaster Rangers they're called, and they were looking for new players, young and old, from age 12 to 21. Bingo, I was in. I'd go down there and say I wanted to join, being a big fan of the NHL, and a massive fan of the Detroit Red Wings, I wanted to try out and see if I had some sort of natural ability. The excitement I was feeling was awesome, it was the same level of excitement as finding out that I had been accepted by this fine scholastic establishment. I went to the directions to find out where it was, came up with this;

From Philadelphia and the East:

PA Turnpike west to Exit 21 (Reading).
Take Route 222 South to Route 30 West.
30 West to the Fruitville Pike exit.
Go north at the second light (first light is Lititz Pike) onto Fruitville Pike.
Turn left onto Granite Run Drive (Fulton Bank on left).
Pass Secret Sneaker and Play It Again Sports, turn left onto Carerra Drive.
Follow Carerr Drive into the parking lot.

It was based in motherfucking America. West Philadelphia. Born and fucking raised. In a playground where I spent most of my fucking days. Heart sank. No Ice Hockey for me. There was no Ice Rink in Lancaster (UK, Lancashire) at all.

I couldn't see Liverpool losing to Blackpool today. I don't have Sky.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-11409577
Just like her oldest brother..........I'm so sorry.

I need a sport. Thought about going back to rugby but the thought of playing with people I don't know as opposed to the team I grew up with for what must have been 8 years just scared me a little. It seemed like I'd be playing for City when you're a die-hard United fan. I'm going to set up a Pool Team for the Uni, but that's not the most strenuous of activities I'd be the first to admit. I think I'm going to try with American Football or even just Hockey. I need something to make sure I don't end up being able to eat my dinner off a plate balanced on my stomach. I'm losing weight though, I think its just because I haven't had the food around bought by someone else like I did at home, all my money either goes on playing Pool, the pub quiz machine or on red wine. Which I am quite happy with.
Only a short post today, I'm losing my will to live thinking of things to say for no-ones pleasure.

Love and why the fuck have I bought smooth peanut butter.

Jc

Eat Pray Fail to reignite your career

ALRIGHT YOU COW SHITS IN THE FIELD THAT I CALL MY LIFE I HATE YOU ALL.
I'm back and thoroughly pissed from a good drink and play of FIFA 11 with my mate. I'm drunk on wine and fizzy Vimto and all the rest of the housemates are out, leaving me free to walk around in the nude and crank the decent music to 11. I'm upset at not knowing anyone with my taste of music. Granted they're quite niche genres in this day and age of shit rap and RnB, but come on, you'd think they'd be someone walking around at least dressed in the clothing that you'd associate with psychobilly or punk. Once again, granted I don't dress that way a good 95% of the time, but thats purely due a combination of laziness, being strapped for cash and availability of such clothing. If you're out there and live in Lancaster, just get in fucking contact, I need someone to kick people to in a confined musical space.
Wine is a beautiful drink, my Mum drinks it in healthy amounts regularly, and has constantly offered it me since I've started to casually drink, which was at about the age of 15-16. I always refused, just due to me always feeling embarassed at the prospect of drinking in front of my Mum. I can only remember 3 times where I've sworn in front of my Mum.
1. When I nearly got ran over by a car in the carpark of Morrisons Fleetwood
2. When I was telling her the name of Quentin Tarantinos latest film, 'Inglourious Basterds'
3. When she rang and told me about Student Finance.

Its an odd thing. I'm totally open to my Mum. I told her when I first started having sex, I've told her that I've tried weed and I've told her when I first started to feel so Bi-Polar low that I could quite easily give up my life. But I've always felt embarassed and (this may be a strong word) ashamed when I drink.
I have the total opposite with my Dad. I still have the emotional bond towards my Dad, but when I've been asked to describe my relationship to my Dad, I've always said that he's 'been a shit Dad but my best, best, best friend', its a bond that I've always wished I'd had in the older childhood years of my life, ages 11,12,13. It may sound like a bad thing but alcohol opened him up to me. It was only when I looked old enough to be served in pubs that we've managed to connect, that doesn't mean we have to be royally wankered to have a conversation, but, as I'm sure some people who read this know, a cold glass of cider, (or John Smiths for my Dad) is one hell of an icebreaker.
I have to say I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm extremely lucky.

Love and apologies for lack of funnies.

Jc

Gringo Bingo

Hello you sticky keys on the young teenage boys laptop that I call life.
Its chucking it down here, but I managed to get to the canteen just when they were labelling the sandwiches half price, so I took full advantage of this and bought six. Along with two caramel shortbreads and a White Chocolate Magnum, calorific isn't the word. Obesity is. I'm eating less here surprisingly though, even with a card with 500 pounds on to spend on food, the thought of canteen food puts me off eating a little, so all I'm buying is sandwiches and diet coke.
One thing I'm surprised about here is the lack of people offering me drugs. I mean we hardly ever got it at Ormskirk, but that was a quiet place, we did know someone who smoked a hilarious amount of weed at Edge Hill, he's a lovely guy and surprisingly clever for someone who smoked so much that Howard Marks would probably tell him to calm the hell down. I don't mind admitting on here, knowing that my family read this, that I have tried it, and it was quite fun I have to say, but just the thought of having to inhale it to get any effect just puts me off from ever trying it once more. I enjoy cigars every so often when I get the chance, just because I love the taste, you don't have to inhale, and if you stick your stomach out and push your chin against your neck and 'two-finger-swear' at someone I manage to look like a young Winston Churchill.

My blind girlfriend broke up with me today. She said she couldn't see us going anywhere.

I do believe everyone needs a vice though, I'd say my vice was outrageous amounts of masturbation. I jest of course...*nervously shifts*
Being serious I do think my vice is gambling, I'd bet on anything, anything except horses, because I'd only bet on things I can actually win on. So be it football, NHL or whether me or Josh Hughes can grow a beard for longer. Talking of that, I'll be starting No Shave November again, nationwide its called Movember, but I came up with it with no knowledge of this, just to celebrate my birthday with everyone sporting patchy facial hair, and therefore getting no poontang, just like me!

Whats hairy and blessed?
Brian

I'm off I got things to do like lie around and eat a Magnum and cry.

Love and celebrating your mother
Jc

Character Assassination

Student Finance workers are sorry excuses of chromosome pairs who for all I know, could have just 18 pairs of the aforementioned. In essence I'm calling them fucking cabbages. I can say hand on heart I have never been more angry than I have ever been in my life putting the phone down after saying goodbye to my Mum who told me the news of what the Glaswegian pant-shitters down at Student Finance England told her today.
She's writing to the local MP, I'm venting not only my spleen, but also my liver, kidneys and appendix all over your faces if you like it or not.
All I'll be offering is a very sweary list of insults at how stupid they are. If someone from Student Finance reads this, then awesome. I have a mate who had a rant at the short term loan company 'Wonga.com' and someone from the company somehow read it. I can only pray that someone at Student Finance knows how to work a computer.
Have you ever heard that saying, 'if you gave an infinite amount of monkeys an infinite amount of typewriters with an infinite amount of time, they'll produce the entire works of Shakespeare'? I'm pretty sure if you swapped the word 'monkeys' with 'Student Finance England workers' I'd put my money on the monkeys to finish it first. Even if you gave the Student Finance England workers a headstart, such as having the entire works of Shakespeare in front of them, it'd be too many words and too much hard work to comprehend and they'd end up turning into alcoholics and battering their spouses like the Glaswegians that they are.
20 to 100 million sperm were released on average when the Student Finance England workers mothers and fathers (Whoever that may be, I'm confident they wouldn't know) had sex, and they were the fastest? Those braindead, bumbling, yellow-bellied bastards? Its a shock they even had the balls, brains and sense to even be born. They should be stuffed back up into the womb they came from, or at the very least walk backwards into the sea and grow gills, to be, quite literally, the biggest fish in a small pond, and achieve something for the first time in the petty excuse of their room-temperature IQ'd lives.
Now give me my fucking money or I'll punch you so hard I'll wear you as a puppet and perform sex acts on your pets.

Thats all the anger out of me for another year. I'm off to cuddle a puppy.

Love and kisses and cuddles and happiness
Jc

Ken Dodd's Dead Dad's Dogs Dead!

Bonjour, mon Revels cafe dans le sac de partage de la vie.
Excuse my French, I'm feeling continental. I'm not, I'm just trying to avoid reading Chuck (Charles) Dickins' 'Hard Times', which could quite easily be one of the shittest books ever written, beating even Anne Franks sorry excuse for thrills and chills, and the entire bottom shelf of 2 for £5 paperbacks in the local Asda. Now give me Ryu Murakami detailing an American man enveloping a mans ear into a vagina of a dead Japanese prostitute and I'll be interested in that slice of fiction. That scene is from a book called 'In The Miso Soup' by the way. It's like American Psycho, but set abroad and extremely interesting, if for that choice scene. Spoiler Alert above by the way.
Girls are on my mind today, not Megan Fox or Billie Piper or Jessica Alba or Gemma Arterton or Emma Watson or Cheryl Cole and even Rachel Riley who I haven't had a fix off for a good 2 weeks. Daniel Arnold will know what/who I mean. I'm pretty sure Daniel Arnold will not like being linked to this post but I don't give an unholy damn. Still have never asked a girl out, still never will knowingly and I still will act all nervous around girls I like. Only been two weeks here but there's a lovely girl here who I may try and pluck up the courage to go for. Whether or not this will pan out is totally dependant on how I feel in the morning, and if its like any of the mornings I've had recently, I don't stand a chance in hell.

I'd never read my sons diary. Any son that sits inside all day writing would have fuck all to write about.

Hopefully in my life I'd never have to have sex with a tree. Touch wood.

Jesus I've eaten too much Haribo. Anyway I went to see that Ryan Reynolds film, 'Buried' tonight. I can't actually name a film I've been scared of watching, but for some reason this film made me breathe really deeply when Reynolds character onscreen started running out of oxygen and I was just anxious and uncomfortable all the way through. It was extraordinary. I'm not the biggest fan of small spaces anyway being 16 stone of pure stupidity (and now it seems, Haribo Starmix), and as good as that film was, I could quite easily never watch it again in case it gave me the same weird feeling. In the words of Charles Dickens, from his tenth novel 'Hard Times',

"Dats some crazy motherfuckin' shit yo?!"

Love and the fried eggs in Haribo
Jc