In 1942, Hitler decided he'd had enough of a certain race of people and set about removing them. Fast forward almost 70 years, and after a freshly swept haircut and dodgy facial hair decision, I was ready to do the same.
The past couple of Facebook visits have resulted in the discovery of some harsh truths. A group of kids from school who I'd accepted as mates on a 'need to neb' basis, had actually went to the bother to go through their lists and delete ME! The absolute cheek of it. Are these the same people that still hang around in the same group as they did at school, reminiscing about how good it was in year 8 whilst fingering each other at Take That concerts? The group that used to talk about how funny it was when they got really pissed in the bars in Whitley Bay one Saturday night? Come on. If your ideal night involves getting a free shot of Corkeys in the Hairy Lemon, then you probably go out with your slag of a mother and watch her get shagged by an entire stag do at the end of the night whilst she smothers garlic sauce on her spaniels ears. With doner meat wrapped around her cock.
Where did I go wrong eh? Countless football related statuses? Maybe. Profanity? Fucking hope so. Statuses directed at shit people who actually go to Whitley Bay with their old teachers to enjoy themselves? Most definitely. Too many people pussy foot around these days without ever saying what they actually think. These people are duller than a Gordon Brown waxwork and we have nothing in common.
In order to prevent the embarrassment of being wiped from any other twat's companion tally, I've done my own bit of Hitler-esque cleansing. No need for any gas chambers in this instance, though I wouldn't rule it out if one became available. Lure them in there with a promise of spray tans, a free pass into Jimmyz and naturally, a shot of Corkeys. Their parents would probably be relieved. Not as relieved as I.
P.T.
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Friday, 6 May 2011
Something For The Weekend
Don't be fooled by the title of this post - I'm not going to go into too much depth about the demise of Tim Lovejoy, former presenter of Soccer AM, current run-of-the-mill mid morning jumble sale show bastard. He had it all; adoring football fans, great gags and a beautiful blonde shemale co-presenter by his side, but he threw it all away to 'better his career'. How many times have we heard that before? Actors jumping ship from Eastenders, found on a Metro advert a few years later, advertising them as 'that bloke from Albert Square' in some Easter pantomime of Puss in fucking Boots. Should have taken that storyine about being caught fiddling with your dog, shouldn't you Mr Gaffney?
On a very much more positive note, I'm going to the City Hall tonight to see Milton Jones. If you don't know who he is, he's the weird bloke who often appears on Mock the Week (maybe that doesn't narrow it down enough), who also does the voice for that little midget creature thing in the Harry Potter films. He's clever, he's odd, and he's a damn sight better than the gimmicky dross served up by the likes of Michael McIntyre and Peter Kay all too often. Take a look and judge for yourself:
On a very much more positive note, I'm going to the City Hall tonight to see Milton Jones. If you don't know who he is, he's the weird bloke who often appears on Mock the Week (maybe that doesn't narrow it down enough), who also does the voice for that little midget creature thing in the Harry Potter films. He's clever, he's odd, and he's a damn sight better than the gimmicky dross served up by the likes of Michael McIntyre and Peter Kay all too often. Take a look and judge for yourself:
Bringing everything back down to miserable earth again, I'll be going to watch my beloved Newcastle United serve up another wonderful plate of false hope at 3PM Saturday. Walking to St James Park every other week is like walking backwards and forwards down a dark alley to be gang raped by a bunch of bigger lads. It's painful to watch, but the sense of belonging is there every time you go back.
Try to enjoy your weekend.
P.T.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Quiz Show Tosser
Years have passed since the short lived, well received Sorrrsigeblog (just pretend you know what I'm talking about) graced your shiny Mac screens, before disappearing into cyberspace before even trending on Twitter. A series of unfortunate events over the past few weeks have made me reassess the situation; I lost my job recently, I deleted my Facebook account and then developed a deep hatred for CJ from The Eggheads. 'Bitter This, Bitter That' is my new release, in more ways than one.
I'm not going to bore you all and talk about the job situation at all, but fuck me I'm mad. Our relocation to Gateshead has enforced a fortnightly pilgrimage on a Tuesday afternoon up to the High Street, where I am forced to mingle with the living dead in order to 'sign on'. It's times like these that I can actually hold my head up high and proclaim myself to be the sexiest man in Gateshead, no question. Stood at the top of Jackson Street, I overheard one mutant grunt to the other, 'aarrr narrr mate, divvunt gaan doon there man...thus arrrnly posh shops like Peacocks und Bon Marksies'. The place is full of snobby idiots like him, and I'm not going to stand for it.
Anyway, the worthless Nigel in the job centre is determined to push me into some hideous call centre located somewhere like Holy fucking Island on six pound bot all an hour, and all he's done is whinge about my lack of flexibility since I've walked through the door. I haven't came here to play crab football, you complete dick, now find me something suitable pronto, before I staple your fingers to your bastard eyeballs. I'm different to the Gateshead thoroughbreads that normally stagger through the doors there and he just can't seem to realise that because he's too busy flirting with four tits Anne, sitting on the next table. She's probably equally as shit, so no doubt in two weeks time I will be sat opposite her whilst she tells me I should apply to McDonalds in Skegness. I'd say the only 'Marketing' role they've ever heard of in there is working for a fruit and veg stall, so I'll be in there a few more times yet if they've anything to do with it.
Moving on, and to be fair to CJ from The Eggheads, it's a little harsh to single him out considering I dislike most things and people. He just happened to be there during one of my increasingly frequent daytime TV viewings and my immediate thoughts were to shout 'prick' at the screen as loud as I could. Eggheads is a quiz show, where a team consisting of the general public go up against 'the greatest quiz team in the world', which consists of former winners of equally unwatchable tripe like Countdown and Mastermind. As TV personalities go, I would put him on a level with Gordon the Gopher, though Gordon probably has better crack even without Philip Schofield's arm lubed up his cacky winker. CJ, or Cock Jockey to his mates, looks like he bathes in the deep fat fryer and is an arsehole in the purest sense of the word. I challenge anyone in the world to even consider liking him for one second of their lives, but they will probably break down and cry like I did when the bastard won AGAIN. AAARRRGGGGHHH!
PS listen to this, it's wicked
P.T.
x
I'm not going to bore you all and talk about the job situation at all, but fuck me I'm mad. Our relocation to Gateshead has enforced a fortnightly pilgrimage on a Tuesday afternoon up to the High Street, where I am forced to mingle with the living dead in order to 'sign on'. It's times like these that I can actually hold my head up high and proclaim myself to be the sexiest man in Gateshead, no question. Stood at the top of Jackson Street, I overheard one mutant grunt to the other, 'aarrr narrr mate, divvunt gaan doon there man...thus arrrnly posh shops like Peacocks und Bon Marksies'. The place is full of snobby idiots like him, and I'm not going to stand for it.
Anyway, the worthless Nigel in the job centre is determined to push me into some hideous call centre located somewhere like Holy fucking Island on six pound bot all an hour, and all he's done is whinge about my lack of flexibility since I've walked through the door. I haven't came here to play crab football, you complete dick, now find me something suitable pronto, before I staple your fingers to your bastard eyeballs. I'm different to the Gateshead thoroughbreads that normally stagger through the doors there and he just can't seem to realise that because he's too busy flirting with four tits Anne, sitting on the next table. She's probably equally as shit, so no doubt in two weeks time I will be sat opposite her whilst she tells me I should apply to McDonalds in Skegness. I'd say the only 'Marketing' role they've ever heard of in there is working for a fruit and veg stall, so I'll be in there a few more times yet if they've anything to do with it.
Moving on, and to be fair to CJ from The Eggheads, it's a little harsh to single him out considering I dislike most things and people. He just happened to be there during one of my increasingly frequent daytime TV viewings and my immediate thoughts were to shout 'prick' at the screen as loud as I could. Eggheads is a quiz show, where a team consisting of the general public go up against 'the greatest quiz team in the world', which consists of former winners of equally unwatchable tripe like Countdown and Mastermind. As TV personalities go, I would put him on a level with Gordon the Gopher, though Gordon probably has better crack even without Philip Schofield's arm lubed up his cacky winker. CJ, or Cock Jockey to his mates, looks like he bathes in the deep fat fryer and is an arsehole in the purest sense of the word. I challenge anyone in the world to even consider liking him for one second of their lives, but they will probably break down and cry like I did when the bastard won AGAIN. AAARRRGGGGHHH!
PS listen to this, it's wicked
P.T.
x
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