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
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
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
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
Sunday, 26 September 2010
Paul Rudd Can Suck My Chud.
Be gone of you, you human laserburns on the Digital VD of my very existance.
Done fuck all to write about by the way, but that hasn't stopped me blogging for the last year so I wouldn't be too worried. Like you care and all.
I don't understand people who write blogs on this website and others like it, about politics and childcare and the state of the welfare system in Swansea. It may just be my complete and utter ignorance about those very subjects but it just seems like if you're going to write a blog online, which at most is going to be read by under 5 people, the first thing you're going to be judged on is a post about Ed fucking Miliband? I'd rather write about myself, as I feel I'm more interesting than the Fuckle brothers that are, the Milibands. Each to their own, and all that.
I love watching Songs of Praise. I watch it religiously every Sunday afternoon.
(Now thats a fucking shit joke)
Been listening to music constantly at Uni, pretty sure the housemates are getting fucking sick of Weezer but at least they'll be able to sing along to Buddy Holly with me. I seem to be reverting to my old Obsessive Compulsive ways as well, touching everything even number of times and thinking stupid fucking thoughts. I always do this and its never gone, but I just seem to be doing it a hell of a lot more than I have been doing. I guess its just big changes and all that. Latest weird thought, what if I start sleepwalking and go down to the library and post weird statuses on my Facebook saying who I like and what if people read them and what if and what if and what if. A little insight into the daily thoughts of Joshua there.
Theres a big difference between
'I love my girlfriend < 3'
and
'I love my girlfriend <3'
Sometimes I like to stand in front of the toaster and try not to flinch when the toast comes out.
I shall be 'performing' at The Comedy Store this November trying to increase on my piss-poor performance last year, you're more than welcome to come and laugh at me fail miserably, and laugh at some people who are actually half-funny, will be a laugh. Will post more details soon.
Now I've got access to the internet, expect more blogs, fucking boo-ya and all that.
Love and testicular cancer.
Jc
Done fuck all to write about by the way, but that hasn't stopped me blogging for the last year so I wouldn't be too worried. Like you care and all.
I don't understand people who write blogs on this website and others like it, about politics and childcare and the state of the welfare system in Swansea. It may just be my complete and utter ignorance about those very subjects but it just seems like if you're going to write a blog online, which at most is going to be read by under 5 people, the first thing you're going to be judged on is a post about Ed fucking Miliband? I'd rather write about myself, as I feel I'm more interesting than the Fuckle brothers that are, the Milibands. Each to their own, and all that.
I love watching Songs of Praise. I watch it religiously every Sunday afternoon.
(Now thats a fucking shit joke)
Been listening to music constantly at Uni, pretty sure the housemates are getting fucking sick of Weezer but at least they'll be able to sing along to Buddy Holly with me. I seem to be reverting to my old Obsessive Compulsive ways as well, touching everything even number of times and thinking stupid fucking thoughts. I always do this and its never gone, but I just seem to be doing it a hell of a lot more than I have been doing. I guess its just big changes and all that. Latest weird thought, what if I start sleepwalking and go down to the library and post weird statuses on my Facebook saying who I like and what if people read them and what if and what if and what if. A little insight into the daily thoughts of Joshua there.
Theres a big difference between
'I love my girlfriend < 3'
and
'I love my girlfriend <3'
Sometimes I like to stand in front of the toaster and try not to flinch when the toast comes out.
I shall be 'performing' at The Comedy Store this November trying to increase on my piss-poor performance last year, you're more than welcome to come and laugh at me fail miserably, and laugh at some people who are actually half-funny, will be a laugh. Will post more details soon.
Now I've got access to the internet, expect more blogs, fucking boo-ya and all that.
Love and testicular cancer.
Jc
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
"I killed a man" and "UCum Warriors" (or Everything You've Wanted to Know About Shitting In Unisex Toilets, But Were Too Afraid Too Ask)
Hello my strangely moist backseats on my busride of life.
I'm in Lancaster, home of a weekly radio show spoken in Polish and hometown of Andy Wear, star of ITV's 'The Royal', I moved here last Sunday and was welcomed by an ecletic mix of housemates that I'd rate 9/10 of the International Josh Cannings 'Sorted' scale. Rooms massive compared to my Edge Hill residence, but it doesn't have a tv/computer and en suite bathroom, of which you could sit down on the toilet, take a piss, have a shower and watch tv all at the same time. If you did this in my new room at Lancaster, it would involve a lot of mirrors, the DIY SOS team and a tv aerial installed in my room. I'd have a go, but I can't fucking stand Nick Knowles, he always looks like he's hooked up on morphine and then asked a really difficult question about the existance of God.
Me my coursemates as well, who seem fantastic, me and three girls on the course played 'Have I Never' the first night, therefore giving me a lot of fodder for blackmail, if it wasn't for the fact they now the sexual antics of my conquests, (yes I used conquests, I'm in Lancaster, it is allowed) I'm looking forward to starting my course very much so, it seems like it's much more structured and flexible than Edge Hills course, you're given the option of what era's to study from and more understanding of students needs, something Edge Hill didn't seem to get right.
I miss the place though, like a wife misses her husband that beats her and calls her a whore, I miss it a lot. Even though they were complete gunts (google it) the people that I became good friends with were people I felt would become lifelong friends, and although thats still possible, the chances have been cut significantly.
One problem about Sarah Witham Hall, my flats, is the lack of en-suite accommodation, something a year ago I could not have lived without, it just shows how much I've changed in a year, I've changed into a toilet and germ freak with a compulsion for order and symmetry to a germ freak with a compulsion for order and symmetry. Go me.
I'm going to leave now, Student Finance have cooked up a good fucking serving of 'Stupid Request' Bolognase that I need to choke on.
Now I'm back doing Creative Writing I've started to use metaphors everywhere, I feel like a poor mans Jeremy Clarkson. Actually thats just Quentin Wilson. I feel like Quentin Wilson then.
Love and Ham and Eggs for £1.99
Jc
I'm in Lancaster, home of a weekly radio show spoken in Polish and hometown of Andy Wear, star of ITV's 'The Royal', I moved here last Sunday and was welcomed by an ecletic mix of housemates that I'd rate 9/10 of the International Josh Cannings 'Sorted' scale. Rooms massive compared to my Edge Hill residence, but it doesn't have a tv/computer and en suite bathroom, of which you could sit down on the toilet, take a piss, have a shower and watch tv all at the same time. If you did this in my new room at Lancaster, it would involve a lot of mirrors, the DIY SOS team and a tv aerial installed in my room. I'd have a go, but I can't fucking stand Nick Knowles, he always looks like he's hooked up on morphine and then asked a really difficult question about the existance of God.
Me my coursemates as well, who seem fantastic, me and three girls on the course played 'Have I Never' the first night, therefore giving me a lot of fodder for blackmail, if it wasn't for the fact they now the sexual antics of my conquests, (yes I used conquests, I'm in Lancaster, it is allowed) I'm looking forward to starting my course very much so, it seems like it's much more structured and flexible than Edge Hills course, you're given the option of what era's to study from and more understanding of students needs, something Edge Hill didn't seem to get right.
I miss the place though, like a wife misses her husband that beats her and calls her a whore, I miss it a lot. Even though they were complete gunts (google it) the people that I became good friends with were people I felt would become lifelong friends, and although thats still possible, the chances have been cut significantly.
One problem about Sarah Witham Hall, my flats, is the lack of en-suite accommodation, something a year ago I could not have lived without, it just shows how much I've changed in a year, I've changed into a toilet and germ freak with a compulsion for order and symmetry to a germ freak with a compulsion for order and symmetry. Go me.
I'm going to leave now, Student Finance have cooked up a good fucking serving of 'Stupid Request' Bolognase that I need to choke on.
Now I'm back doing Creative Writing I've started to use metaphors everywhere, I feel like a poor mans Jeremy Clarkson. Actually thats just Quentin Wilson. I feel like Quentin Wilson then.
Love and Ham and Eggs for £1.99
Jc
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Really big shoe, aaaaa-really big.
Hello my human dirt streaks on the TV of life.
It's tough making choices, whether its deciding whether to have a Magnum Almond or White (normal response: Both), whether to talk to the girl next to you at the bar (normal response: Shout 'hey', shake like a fucking leaf, then for some reason comment on how nice that bottle of Red Aftershock looks and run away), or tell someone something that could very easily ruin a very good friendship. I've already done the latter once and it wasn't a nice couple of weeks, filled with awkwardness (a different kind of awkwardness that my normal kind) and avoidance of their Venn diagram section of friends that intersects with yours. I'm sitting at my Nan and Grandads right now on their computer, with the homosexual Labrador of theres (it tries to fuck other male dogs), in my grey shorts with a patch of stitching I've noticed that looks extraordinarily like the Swastika, just thinking whether it's worth another avoidance of 'that Venn diagram' or if I should just leave things be.
I've always wondered what bridges would have been opened or burnt if I'd have posted all the blogs that I've written on this site. I don't think I'd have such a good group of friends that I'm blessed/cursed with. Not that I'm bitchy, but just pure unadulterated honesty can repel people from wanting to connect with you. I've written whole chunky blogs about people I like, people I don't like, decisions I should have took and porn that I've watched, but in my beautiful bearded head have felt that sometimes, that far is sometimes a little too far.
The sudden abundance of girls I've added or have added me on Facebook is making me look dangerously like a filthy, filthy old man, and I do not want this to be what I'm known as at Cumbria University. At least not at the moment, I'll wait till I'm still completing my first year when I'm 34, with a dockoff combover and a permanent erection at the SU bar. There just seems to be little to no guys on the campus in Lancaster who are either doing my course, staying at Sarah Witham Hall or have any interest in my hobbies and pastimes. Which either makes me a extremely lucky, or extremely unlucky for having zero-to-none lads to talk about man stuff like cars and boobs and army and football and SAS.
No more blogs till I'm at University, how unlucky are you lot hey? You lap this shit up like Chilean miner longs for letters from their family.
Love and who-the-fuck-drinks-skimmed-milk
Jc
It's tough making choices, whether its deciding whether to have a Magnum Almond or White (normal response: Both), whether to talk to the girl next to you at the bar (normal response: Shout 'hey', shake like a fucking leaf, then for some reason comment on how nice that bottle of Red Aftershock looks and run away), or tell someone something that could very easily ruin a very good friendship. I've already done the latter once and it wasn't a nice couple of weeks, filled with awkwardness (a different kind of awkwardness that my normal kind) and avoidance of their Venn diagram section of friends that intersects with yours. I'm sitting at my Nan and Grandads right now on their computer, with the homosexual Labrador of theres (it tries to fuck other male dogs), in my grey shorts with a patch of stitching I've noticed that looks extraordinarily like the Swastika, just thinking whether it's worth another avoidance of 'that Venn diagram' or if I should just leave things be.
I've always wondered what bridges would have been opened or burnt if I'd have posted all the blogs that I've written on this site. I don't think I'd have such a good group of friends that I'm blessed/cursed with. Not that I'm bitchy, but just pure unadulterated honesty can repel people from wanting to connect with you. I've written whole chunky blogs about people I like, people I don't like, decisions I should have took and porn that I've watched, but in my beautiful bearded head have felt that sometimes, that far is sometimes a little too far.
The sudden abundance of girls I've added or have added me on Facebook is making me look dangerously like a filthy, filthy old man, and I do not want this to be what I'm known as at Cumbria University. At least not at the moment, I'll wait till I'm still completing my first year when I'm 34, with a dockoff combover and a permanent erection at the SU bar. There just seems to be little to no guys on the campus in Lancaster who are either doing my course, staying at Sarah Witham Hall or have any interest in my hobbies and pastimes. Which either makes me a extremely lucky, or extremely unlucky for having zero-to-none lads to talk about man stuff like cars and boobs and army and football and SAS.
No more blogs till I'm at University, how unlucky are you lot hey? You lap this shit up like Chilean miner longs for letters from their family.
Love and who-the-fuck-drinks-skimmed-milk
Jc
Saturday, 4 September 2010
I want a tattoo of my face, on my face.
Hello you petty excuses for living, you.
Thinking really hard about getting a tattoo, I've said I've wanted one for some time now, but a sudden increase in my monetry situation means I might have the chance to finally get the one I want. Its down to three I want. All Radiohead related, but obscure enough to not to be too geeky or stupid. Number one is 'ne porvivajo nur mortigi tempo' which is 'well-known' in the Radiohead circles as another name for my favourite Radiohead song. Or I could get the Radiohead bear, as shown below;
Or the something using the Radiohead Worm Buffet code, which you can google yourself you lazy assholes.
Oh or the Radiohead 'Down Is The New Up' houses. I like them.
I promise I'll become funnier soon, its hard being this god damn awesome, he says eating his third Cadburys Snack Sandwich bar whilst scrawling the internet for naked pictures of Megan Fox. No success by the way. Bitch.
Love and death by hand sanitizer.
Jc
Thinking really hard about getting a tattoo, I've said I've wanted one for some time now, but a sudden increase in my monetry situation means I might have the chance to finally get the one I want. Its down to three I want. All Radiohead related, but obscure enough to not to be too geeky or stupid. Number one is 'ne porvivajo nur mortigi tempo' which is 'well-known' in the Radiohead circles as another name for my favourite Radiohead song. Or I could get the Radiohead bear, as shown below;
Or the something using the Radiohead Worm Buffet code, which you can google yourself you lazy assholes.Oh or the Radiohead 'Down Is The New Up' houses. I like them.
I promise I'll become funnier soon, its hard being this god damn awesome, he says eating his third Cadburys Snack Sandwich bar whilst scrawling the internet for naked pictures of Megan Fox. No success by the way. Bitch.
Love and death by hand sanitizer.
Jc
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