You Sexy Motherfacist

Taken from Today's Oldham paper. The NF claimed this man died a "hero" last year!

SENIOR member of the far-right National Front party accidentally killed himself while carrying out a bizarre sex act.

Kristian Etchells, 29, was found dead in a store cupboard at his Oldham flat with a black kettle-flex around his neck and with a picture of a schoolgirl on the floor, an inquest was told.

Turf Wars

That ho elwheelio
is probably a padeo
picking on the pooperfly
gonna get dust in his eye
when he watch me fly by
I'll kill im in a drive-by

He's a boy in a bubble and his girlfriend's got a baboon's heart

Westside till I die

Cuntreversial motherfucker.
Dissin on spittin
ain't gonna get me down
cunting clown.

Rap is coolio
Makes kings of foolios
shit nuts bag cluts
Do bi do wap, hear this rap.

I'm on a roll
A rapper on trial
Should be in 8-mile
But I'm in an office wit bitches

Don't give rap the bum-rush
Hush hush your mush
Burn in a pub
You dirty crub.

Nuff said. Respect to the West Durrington Massive.

1:18 PM

MC Pooperfly said...

Yo yo yo
yo yo
yo yo yo
yo yo
yo yo yo

Cunt bitch fuck maim
I gotta new name

1:32 PM

Miss Pooperfly said...

Shit didn't work.
Computers are gay
Burn em with the rest
but not today
cos my boyf would complain
Here's my nu name

1:33 PM

Amish Paradise

Welcome to day 25 of my Amish blog. It's been a long and fruitful journey, from the time my horse got syphilis not long after my brother, Dixon, to the time I couldn't blog because I'd spent 38 continuous hours running in a giant wheel to generate enough electricty to blog. A task I still found more rewarding than cycling. Thanks to all my regular readers and supporters, who sent me a collection of quilts this winter. However, it is my duty to tell those who sent me Razzle that they will be damned in hell. No need for quilts there!

Obviously, I run this risk myself, for using the computer. I know you're all wondering how this fits my beliefs. Thankfully, I've circumnavigated the problem by purchasing a key-prodder that I attach to my forehead. Much like the 'spastics' you see on 'television'. (Although, in my community (Surbiton) we call them 'little devils' and drown them. ;-)) fodivnoiefn. Damn! I sneezed! Hopefully, the fact that my body never touches the keyboard will spare me eternal damnation. Although some of the things I've seen on the internet might not. Only yesterday I saw an advert for a Ford Mondeo. The only place you'll go fast in that is hell. No need for a heater there!

My life isn't that different from anyone else's. I get up at 4 am, milk the cows. Then plough the fields, using the cows. I have lunch, pot noodle, then run in my wheel- we're not allowed toys, and sports are evil. Although this all stands to change. Mr Amish- the leader of our community -has made a proclamation that the use of animals is evil and modern. So from next week, we'll be milking Aunt Tandy in the morning, and I'll be riding my nephew, Jessop, 8 miles to town and back to collect the 8 gallons of dirty water we drink- pure water is modern. The only way that'll make you thin is when you sweat it out in the fiery pits of hell! No point in cooling down there!

I must go now. My cousin, Richer Sounds, has chewed the leg off our mule, and has a tootache. So I must knock him out and remove it. Typical. You can never find the beating post when you need it.

check out the hook while my dj revolves it

Today, I have been mostly posting her: Crubtabulous

Yippee Yippee Yay-yay Yay-ay-ay

Bez: I was in a heap of shit in every way possible, now I've been bailed right out so I am forever grateful.

Davina: Who were your best mates?

Bez: They were all my best mates.

p.s. I actually missed the final, cos I was on a train. But my housemates provided me with regular text updates.

If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air

Today, I have been mostly posting here: Mmmm..... Cock

Jesus Fucking Christ. I'm so bored I can't be arsed to blog

Onomatopoeia Name that Tune

After the startling success of my last interactive blog, Oi, which was a story (still to receive a comment), I'm going to provide another game. The fact that I now have now mentioned my audience of 2 (Ed and Guy) also provides me with some emotional blackmail to garner participation. They'll start easy:

1) Ski ba ba ba da bo. Ba ba ba da bo.

2) Do bi do bi do do. AAAAAAAAAHHHH AAH AH AH AH.

3) Guitar riff: Der der der. Der der da der. Der der der - Der der.

4) Ah la la la la lum. Ah la la la la lum lum, ley lum lum lum.

5) La la la la la, la la la la.

6) Hey, Haey Baby. Ho ha. I wanna knooooww... oh, hang on. That one doesn't work.

7) chick a bada, chick a bada, bo. La la. Do be doo.

8) Da na da da da. Der da do nda da da da.

9) vroom, vroom.

That's all I've got for now. If you can think of any, stick them up. I'm having problems getting 'The Lion sleeps tonight' out of my head. This stops me from remembering Stevie Wonder and Prince songs, which I'm sure have plenty of do do's. And number 8 might be mis-represented.

In the jungle the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight

Y'know when a song gets stuck in your head, and you just can't get rid of it. It's great when the song's good, but a bit of a shame if you can't share it with anyone. I've got 'the Lion sleeps tonight in my head', but I can't very well stand up and sing it. People'll think I'm gay or something.

Ah, fuck it...

'AHH... WOOO. WOOOAHHH A WEE AHH WUM A WAY.
AHH...OOOOOOOOOO. WOOOOOAHH WEE AH WUM A WAY.
A WIM O WAY, A WIM O WAY, A WIM O WAY, A WIM O WAY, A WIM O WAY, A WIM O WAY, A WIM O WAY, A WIM O WAY.'

I'm not sure if this song being stuck in my head is the direct cause of a better mood, or if the song that immerses itself in one's psyche is a reflection of a mood. Note how yesterday, it was a RATM lyric that sprung to mind as the title of a blog.

This blog is dedicated to the hope for freedom of those in Guantanamo Bay. Only Germaine Greer can possibly understand what it means for those 4 to have liberty again. She has just emerged from a 'fascist prison'. I also dedicate this to her, and look forward to her authoritative writing style and well-researched journalism. If only she were in Robert Fisk's position now, I'm sure the war in Iraq would be over. Actually, she'd probably be dead. I also dedicate this blog to Robert Fisk, who I think is the only heroic and admirable character in the mainstream British press.

p.s. if anyone has an alternative spelling suggestion for the lyrics to 'The lion sleeps tonight' I'd really love to read them. Mine aren't bad, but there's room for improvement.

Fuck you I won't do what you tell me

What a distant cry life in offices is from the world of hope on offer to the celebrity big brother contestants. Germaine Greer has upped sticks and walked out with an anarchistic enthusiasm I crave in my temporary workplace. Sit down with the boss, tell them I've had enough and would like to pack my bags, then leave to write interesting comment pieces in the broadsheet newspapers and appear with Dermot O'Leary on a couch.

It used to be my ethos that it's not what you do, it's where you're at that counts. Hence why I spend my weekday daylight in front of a computer at a small voluntary organisation doing shitty work. For the last fifteen minutes I have been staring at the little red light on the office phone that shows me the line I need to use is occupied by my manager and her mate she just got back from India with. Occassionally, the boring silence is interspersed with orgasmic laughter coming from that manager's office, who has no desire to stop hogging the phone line and allow it to be used for proper cold-calling work.

So that leaves me redundant. Being the only temporary worker in the organisation, I have 18 days a year less holiday than everyone else, and also receive less pay than my peers. Today, the Chief Executive informed the union (every single member, through a mass e-mail) that they will not be recognised if they try to represent Iain Wilson's request for equal holiday, on account of my agency nature. To make matters worse, I sat through a union meeting (as a guest, because I'm not recognised by 'the man') that discussed a new regrading procedure for all employees. All employees, except the one who is on less money, holiday and security than his predecessor, and who is due to have their working week cut so as to prevent me earning enough to pay my rent. I have explained the predicament I am in to my colleagues, and told them I'm looking for new work and am quite unwilling to train a replacement. The boss's response, good luck. They can always find another temp. Is it too much to ask for unrequited love from the people I spend the majority of my time working for? Some sort of commitment that says they'll give me respectable money, even if I'm in a mood and not giving them everything they want. Particularly since they're a charity.

I look forward to leaving this depressing and demeaning episode behind. Alas, I have another few months of this left before I can afford to move on. In the meantime, the highlight of my days is working out my timetable for withdrawing from my small doses of antidepressant, so that I can become a fully fledged, non-temporary, member of society.

Has anyone got Dickens' Hard Times to lend me?

No, my photo in the top corner isn't Gandhi

Last week, I tried to apply for Vote for me
which is Itv's new reality tv
If I'd won I would be
Britain's laziest MP.

Alas the deadline had just gone, which was a bit of a gutter. I'd started to get excited about the opportunity to rant at a big audience, and re-discover just how out of touch my opinions are with a majority of people. While at college, I ran unopposed for a position at a radio station. Halfway through fielding questions though, someone (a very pretty someone) got up and declared they weren't planning to stand yet I was so incompetent, they felt compelled to run against me. I only received 3 votes. My policies: liberalising the swearing policy since we were an online station, and not mandating dj's to advocate sponsors. Very unpopular. ITV might have had similar misgivings.

Also, if you follow the link to vote for me, you can see Malcolm McLaren's proposal for a 'Plop Idol' (my name)
He says, "Pop Idol is people worship, and the alternative is to knock the idol off the altar: that is what the Sex Pistols did, and I would like to be the catalyst for it to happen again." He also tells the Sunday Herald, "You have to choose the worst, not the best. One lesson is making the worthless valuable, then in making ugliness beautiful."

Anyone playing a McLaren drinking game (not as in McLaren cars) will note that it took him 21 words before he mentioned the Sex Pistols.

I'm holding out for a hero

Davina:
What are you going to miss most while in the Big Brother house?
Bez:
Me Ganja smoking, man.