A word from Dave. And, no, there's no fucking picture

Right, I’m not one to fuck about, as I understand Baz has let you know in his previous posts. And I’m here to have a virtual word with Mr Ubergrumpy, a man who can’t even be bothered to locate the keystroke necessary to stick a fucking umlaut up top of his ‘U’.

The umlaut on the word ‘über’ is like the roof on a fucking house. That’s to say – or ‘ie’ as ‘ubergrumpy’ would probably rather have it – it is FUCKING NECESSARY. Alright? You do not want to be a roofless person. It does not make for peace and fucking harmony. And it goes without saying that, as a roofer, I take exception to some cunt coming along and leaving the roof off a fucking house.

It’s not like I ain’t seen it before. You only need to go to Kefalonia and you’ll see it all over the fucking shop. But there’s a reason for that, and that reason is that they stuck a fucking roof tax on all new buildings years back, which meant that every twat building a house out there pretended to put an extra floor on and left it without a roof. In all my fucking life I have never been anywhere so fucking tragic as Kefafuckinglonia. I went out there looking for work and what did I find? A land where roofs are fucking taxed! What a bunch of cunts.

Anyway, I suppose I’d better explain what I’m doing here, apart from what I’ve already said about wanting to have a virtual fucking pop at Mr Ubergrumpy. I’m Baz’s best mate, which you lot know already. Anyway, I keep up with his blog to make sure he’s ok. I care, that’s the fucking truth. And just because me and Gill are together these days don’t mean that I’d leave him hanging. And before you ask, yes, I follow him under a pseudonym. Not Ellie, either. Christ, does that sound like me?

Now, I’m not a blogging man. Truth be told blogging makes me fucking sick. Blogosphere? Cuntosphere, more like. Take me, right? I’m a roofer. I am, without wanting to blow my own trumpet, which I don’t need to do on account of Gill, who is more than happy to blow my trumpet every tea break (she stays in the van), no without wanting to ‘big myself up’ as the urchins are saying these days, I am the fucking Michelangelo of roofs. And before you start in with your fucking comments, Michelangelo did ceilings, not roofs. It’s a little known fact that, before he started off painting fat kids with wings, Michelangelo was an apprentice to one of his nation’s leading roofers. He didn’t last long, because he was a fucking cunt. Not because he was gay. Contrary to what a lot of people thing, roofers don’t hate gays, and there are some gay roofers who I would trust with any job I had. No he couldn’t fucking concentrate, that was his problem. Anyway, his gaffer told him: ‘I think you’d be better of with ceilings, Mickey. And that, as they say, was that.

So maybe you’d be right to say that I’m not the Michelangelo of roofs, because that would make me a shit roofer. But I’m just trying to put it in a way that the cuntosphere can understand. Truth is, I’m the Dave the Roofer of roofers.

Anyway, my point is that, as a roofer, and as the best of the fucking roofers, the fucking Gandalf of roofers, I do not take kindly to shitty-arsed untrained interlopers. Would you, for example, get some cunt who knew jack shit about roofing to do you a roof? I should hope fucking not. And if you did, you’d fucking deserve it when that shit came crashing down on you when you were bang on the job with your missus on that one night in a thousand when she gives you carte blanche (or one night in one, for me).

So my point, as I was saying, is that people do what they’re good at. Or they used to, until the fucking internet came along. Jesus Christ, that Tim Berners-Lee’s got a fuck of a lot to answer for. Bloggers? They seem to think that, just because they have the capability to publish something, that the something they publish is worth fucking reading. That’s fucking internet democracy in fucking action. What a lot of catshit.

And I count Baz in this, I really do. I mean I can’t fucking believe that people are interested in the floppy shit that sad little monkey spunks up all over his computer. I really can’t. I’m staggered, to be honest with you. But that’s the way of things in the cuntosphere, I suppose. I mean, we’ve got writers, see? People who are good at writing are pro fucking writers. Like me and the roofs.

But at least Baz doesn’t do things like Mr Ubergrumpy. You see, it strikes me that, if you’re going to stop following one of these blogs, you might as well just stop following it. Disappear into the night like some fucking spirit of the silent darkness. But not Ubergrumpy. No, you see Mr Ubergrumpy fancies himself not just as a writer, but as a critic as well.

You see Mr Ubergrumpy decided to make his feelings known. He said the following:

‘Hmmm. Bye’.

And this from someone who breaks Fitzgerald’s cardinal rule, probably without even knowing what Fitzgerald’s cardinal rule even is. If Mr Ubergrumpy wants to be a writer, he should avail himself of Fitzgerald’s cardinal rule. FSF said you should never use an exclamation mark because it’s like laughing at your own jokes. And what does Ubergrumpy do? He points out his jokes and demands a laugh for them, like the worst fucking chick lit book I’ve ever read, and I did a stint reviewing chick lit books for the Daily Telegraph under a pseudonym, so I should fucking know.

Here’s one example:

“a good marriage is built on solid foundations (snigger) and moreover there's a festive tradition to be upheld here.”

Right, well, do we really need you to indicate that there was a joke there Mr U? I do not fucking think so. I think you know that, Mr U. I think you know that your readers are able to spot the double meaning in there. What I actually think happened here is that you realised your gag was a balding thatch so you decided to reinforce it with a request for approval. And what, after all, is a blog if it’s not a request for approval? Daddy not love you? I mean, have you read Barry? Jesus, if his old fella had stuck around he wouldn’t be such a cockless fuckup!

Here’s another:

“P.S. The very lovely Vodka Logic has posted my 'New Santa's Hit' (watch that punctuation) at her sumptuous blog. Complete with tasteful illustrations!”

Jesus fucking Christ, is Mr U so concerned that his joke’s too clever for his readers that he needs to tell them to read it again? Are his readers that stupid? I should hope fucking not.

It comes to something when you’ve got to beg for sycophancy, doesn’t it? Fuck me.

Oh, and Barry’ll be well pissed off when he finds out about this, but fuck it. Gill had his login details. She was reading this from the off. Why do you think she dropped her kecks for me?

He needs to be told, and so do the rest of you.

Dave the Roofer.