Monthly Archives: March 2011


Keep going 24/7 like a perpetual Boeing 747.
Humans are a species of monkeys with over-developed ego glands.
FACT: The influence for Chris De Burgh’s hit sing “Lady in Red” came from a red sock he had his cock in.
Did you know that Lamb cannot be electrically stunned before slaughter? It’s because wool is a good insulator, apparently.
If a man writes a tweet that only women read, is it still wrong?
Sitting, furrowed brow, head in his hands. Concentrating. Deep in thought. “Why? Why? How is it possible?”. Plop. The poo comes out.
Alan has a large ego. Instead of assuming he is better than the rest, he tests himself against them and often comes out with a larger ego.
Bill’s girlfriend is asleep, snoring, mouth WIDE open. He pops a live spider and a worm on her tongue. Why? Why not!
What do you call a terrorist from Ibiza? Allsummer Binlargin’
My father is just back from having triple heart bypass surgery. For a warm welcome, I’m hiding in his wardrobe & I’ve put a rat in his bed.
Getting dressed in the dark was never a problem until I ripped Fido’s guts putting on a pair of dog.
I kid you not: the first thing I saw today was a man balancing a peanut on his dog’s nose.
Colin Firth puts fingers up his nose, grabs a tuft of nasal hair & pulls sharply. He grimaces. His eyes water. That scene won him an Oscar.
With trousers around his ankles, singer Will Young leans over his pet dog. Wide eyed, the border collie worries about the cock on his back.
He Man sniggers at an open window, throwing darts at stray cats. For a moment the laughing stops and a single tear rolls down his cheek.
Take comfort in the fact that I watch you, and your partner, with my cock in hand, as you sleep.
A disturbed Simon Cowell stands in front of the monkey enclosure. Dodging thrown feaces, semen & vomit the chimps don’t vote him through.
There’s a space down there, a disgrace I like to bare, with very little hair, for tender loving care, it gets a lot of wear. #itsmycock
Sliding on his back, from the bus seat behind me, A naked Thomas Yorke’s head appears between my legs. He’s winking. Or is he? He is. Isn’t
Having never mixed with the obese pigs populating our country, the actor Alan Rickman kindly gives up his bus seat for a pregnant man.
The door slams shut, his wife has gone out. Never one to miss an opportunity, Ross Kemp strips naked, lies on the floor and meows loudly.
Loaf of bread in each hand, a baguette stuffed down his trousers; bare-chested he screams, “Come On F*ckers!!”. The ducks seem unimpressed.
Looking out over London Town: a girl screams. You would. Razorblades cellotaped to playground slides hurt.
When I’m out with the girlfriend & I go for a poo, I tell her “there was a big queue”. I also tell her this when i take a dump at home
Haggard, stinking hobo is ripped to the tits on skag.Begging for money he stumbles into traffic and is maimed.It’s 8am. It’s your boss.
Their eyes met across a crowded barn. Time stood still as Daisy fluttered her long eyelashes at Gertrude while defecating 3kg of rotten hay
Far, far, way out in the distance I see a naked man wailing, jumping up and down, crying with rage. I stole his clothes.
Quietly he presses he sneaks up on his sleeping Grandma: pressing his naked buttocks to her face. He farts. Poo comes out. But not from him
Get The London Look: Central Line, naked. Legs APART. Copy of the Metro covering the tackle. Tip of cock visible peeking out underneath.
A man dressed in a twin set, skirt with strappy sandals, flirts and then seductively asks the butcher about his terminally ill wife.
Crouching over a kitten, dropping loose yellow stools onto its soft fur. The kitten eats my poo while crying tears of joy. Why?
Moonwalking into the path of an oncoming train, shouting “heeee hooo” just before impact. All that is left is a single silver glove.
Licking the window of a bus, mouthing “suck it the fuck up” at the 60 year old bodybuilding chinaman on the other side of the glass
Taking photos of my flatmates while wanking and whispering “I’m going to kill you all”
Cock AND balls hanging out of the left leg of my shorts while Grandma watches Grandstand.
What have I done since my emotional departure from Walford? I was never in Walford.
It’s not insomnia, it’s distractnia.
Pieces of 88.8fm. Pirate Radio. Playing your favorite songs by 80’s chart toppers “Aha” all day, every day.
Yours truly’s shoe meets goo disguised as brown leaf litter dropped from dog shitter.
Frozen. Needs gloves hats mac scarves chaps thermal undercracks knits mountain kits crampons. Fuck it. I’ll get creative with tampons.
Laptop’s not got what that twat Hock wants. His ponce PC won’t boot easily for me and fuck-me-days it’s less computer more greasy tea-tray.
Can’t decide whether London is a real life Coruscant, or a massive Mos Eisley.
Gok Wan continues the long voyage towards his dream of looking like a fifty year old Thai female.
Just attended the wedding of a mate who was first introduced to me by Sonic the Hedgehog. How random is that?