Wolfgang in sheep's clothing: Part Two

Ok, so:

The drive back to Mum's was pretty quiet. Every time I tried to start a conversation with her she ended up bringing it round to Roger. How Roger and her are getting quite serious now. How they're thinking of taking it to 'the next stage', whatever that meant. I found it hard to believe that she could be talking about the physical side of their relationship. I doubt my mother would give me notice that she was planning to reawaken the slumbering beast of her carnality. And, frankly, I would not want to know about it if that was her intention. So I supposed that she could only mean marriage.

"Your Dad's been gone a long time, Barry," she said. "And Roger's a far better man than he was."

I couldn't really argue with her on this one. My Dad was a first class shit, as regular readers will know. I count myself lucky every day that I don't take after him in the least. Not that the comparison makes Roger a good man, of course. I'm pretty sure Pol Pot would edge it over my Dad. I bet he never ran off with a lollipop lady. Although Pol Pot's Lollipop would make for a good tune, I suppose.

Anyway, the last thing I wanted to hear about was Mum banging on about hitching her cart to Roger's wagon, so when she said: "I had hoped you might be pleased for me..." I just put my ipod on. I needed to focus, and I'm afraid Mum just had to be a casualty of war at that point.

Back at the house Roger was there to greet us, wearing a smug expression that seems to be a permanent fixture. He has the most slap-able chops I've ever seen on a man. Take Nicky Campbell, multiply his slapability by that of Piers Morgan, add the corresponding value for Michael McIntyre and, well, you're not even close.

We went inside and he insisted that the first thing I did was to introduce myself to his mother.

"And here we are, Barry," he said, "just as I promised. Two fine men sharing Christmas with their mothers. I'd like to introduce to my dear, dear mother, Greta. Mother, this is Barry."

She said:

"He looks like a skinhead. Is he a skinhead?"

Roger said:

"No, no mother. It's quite the fashion these days for men who are losing their hair to shave what's left off altogether."

"Like on Eastenders?" she said.

"That's right, Mother dear. Like on Eastenders."

I nearly hit him. I don't think I've ever seen an older looking woman in my life. I'd say she looked old for 96, really. Anyway, I shook her hand, which felt like paper, and went upstairs to my room. At least they hadn't taken down my Forest posters. But my old room made me feel claustrophobic. Like I'd never left, except here was me, the bad side of 35, lying on a child's bed in a room decorated with pictures of Forest's 1980 European Cup winning side. It felt a bit like dwelling on past glories, if you know what I mean.

So in the end, I bolted. I went downstairs, told Mum I was heading out and went to the pub. It was full of kids. But I found a table in the corner and waited it out. By the time I got back the place was dark and quiet. At least until I tripped over Roger's mum's walking stick. It wasn't the most dignified of entrances, I guess. When you're lying on the floor in your Mum's house, a little over refreshed, at my age, looking up the stairs at your Mum, her new bloke (the tip of whose cock you think you can just about see under his short dressing gown) and your Mum's new bloke's mum (fortunately in a long dressing gown) well you could look at it as a new low, couldn't you. Unfortunately, before Christmas Day was out, I was to look back on this moment as a golden memory of happier times.

I didn't get up until after one, by which stage the others were already on the sherry. There was no option for me but to take the proffered glass from Roger, I needed to steel myself.

"So Barry, did you have a good night last night?" he said, with a smirk. "I trust you slept well. We've been waiting for you. We were hoping to be able to open some presents but I'm afraid the wonderful turkey your mother's been preparing is now ready to be consumed. So we will have presents, ahem, presently." My mum actually laughed at this.

Dinner was wasted on me, if I'm honest, despite it containing all my favourite constituent parts. Roger even had the ability to spoil my food. As I sat pushing sticky toffee pudding round my plate I noticed from the wall clock that it was ten to three. I had a brainwave.

"Come on then," I said. "Let's go and watch the Queen's Speech."

"The Queen's Speech?" said Mum. "You hate the Queen's Speech."

"Not any more," I said. "It's important, isn't it Roger."

"If you say so, Barry," said Roger.

I insisted that they all move through to the living room and we switched on the telly. I fucking hate the Queen's Speech, Mum was right. But this gave me the opportunity to talk serious nationalism. And I have to say, the Queen did not let me down. It was all about the Commonwealth this year, which looked like nothing so much as a desperate, last ditch attempt to keep people focused on something other than all of the shit that's currently going on right here at home. I think we all know that the days when Britain was a serious international power in it's own right are long gone. I bet the Chinese ambassador was just quaking when she got called in to be told that her country shouldn't have executed that bloke this week. Not that we're doing anything about it, of course, just registering our disapproval. Speaking as someone who went on the stop the war march, I'd have thought that the Government would know that registering disapproval is pretty much pointless.

So, as the national anthem came on I stood up and put my fist to my chest. The rest of them looked at me like I was completely mad.

"Come on Roger, stand up!" I said. "Don't you believe we should respect our nation? She's everything to us!"

"I don't feel the need to stand up, Barry," he said.

So there I was standing up in my Mum's living room, fist to chest, singing the National Anthem all on my own. I was starting to feel it all slipping away a bit. The last thing I am is a monarchist. I can't stand the Royal Family. But I'd got so far into this that I couldn't get out. I made one last attempt after the speech was over.

"Well Barry, what did you think of that?" said Roger.

"It was a bit... ethnic, wasn't it?" I said. "I mean, they had a bloody steel band. That's not British, is it. That's now what we're about, is it Roger?"

"Actually, I adore the sound of the steel band," said Roger. "I used to play in one."

"What the bloody hell for?" I said. "You're white!"

"Oh for crying out loud just shut up!" shouted Mum, and then burst into tears. "I don't know what's going wrong with you, Barry. You turn up here looking like a bloody football hooligan. Your face is all gaunt, your eyes are dark. You could be on drugs for all I know. And you've developed the most... odious outlook. It sickens me, Barry. How could you be so prejudiced."

"It's not me, Mum," I said, "It's Roger. He's a facist! I'm just trying to show you!"

"HE IS NOT A FACIST, HE'S A VERY NICE MAN INDEED." Mum screamed. "Now, get out, I've had enough. I'm ashamed to call you my son. I don't want anything more to do with you," At this point, she ran from the room, sobbing. I'll be honest, it wasn't my finest hour.

I turned to Roger, who was smiling. He walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Barry, Barry, Barry," he said. "When are you going to learn. Your mother can't stand those views. She can't stand them. You're going about it all the wrong way, let me tell you. In some ways, I admire your vigour, your verve. We need more like you. But if there's one thing we've learned it's that you have to change, you have to modernise, you have to become like the people you want to appeal to. How do you think we got a Labour government? All this..." here he waved a hand at my haircut, and my 18-hole, cherry red DMs, "all this is yesterday's news. We can't be like this any more."

"Eh?" I said.

"We're politicians now. We want to get elected. You see? We can't be seen as thugs, it just won't do. It won't help us."

"But..."

"Look, I'm with you, I really am. For me, Hitler was the greatest statesman the world has ever known. He had a plan. A vision."

At this point, my head was spinning. And then Greta piped up:

"Ah, the dear, dear Fuhrer. You know for five months in 1943 I had the great, great honour of being one of his secretaries. Deutschland über alles mein Sohn."

"Deutschland über alles meine Mutter," said Roger. Then she stood up and the pair of them started singing O Tannenbaum! I couldn't fucking believe it.

I made a run for it, stopping only to grab my bag and a present with my name on it from under the Tannenbaum. As I left the house I suddenly remembered my voice recorder! In the middle of all that I'd completely forgotten to switch it on! Right then and there I had what I was looking for, and it had slipped straight through my fingers. My Mum, the woman I loved most in the world, hated me and had told me she never wanted to see me again. Meanwhile, she was shacked up with a neo Nazi and his mother; a woman who could probably be tried as a fucking war criminal! That's not what Christmas is supposed to be about.

I checked into a cheap hotel and, once in the room, opened my present. It was from Mum. The label said: "Dear Barry, I know how much you want to be a writer, so I thought this would come in useful. Lots of love, your Mum. xxx"

It was a thesaurus.

My feelings of loss and guilt were Brobdingnagian.

Happy new year, everyone

Barry

Wolfgang in sheep's clothing: Part One

I don’t know about you, readers, but I had a shit Christmas. In fact, it would be no exaggeration to describe the whole experience as a complete disaster. The bottom line for anyone who can’t be bothered to read on is that my mother has disowned me.

Looking back on it I suppose it was a bit of a bad mix. Coming off the twelve drugs of Christmas was probably not the best time to be making my last, big push to out Roger to Mum as a fascist. But I thought, in my addled state, that it would be my best chance, all of us under one roof at Christmas. It’s a difficult few days at the best of times, so I was hoping to capitalise on the season’s traditional tensions.

As you know, the idea is that I persuade Roger that I, like him, am a neo Nazi and, once I have his confidence, make a secret tape of his evil ranting on my little voice recorder, play it to Mum and send him packing once and for all.

In preparation for the whole thing, to finally get behind Roger’s veneer of respectability, I shaved my head. I tell you what; it really does make you look more intimidating. I noticed as I was walking down the street that people were giving me strange looks. You can imagine how this was making me feel having spent the previous twelve days taking the hardest drugs known to man.

By the time I reached the station on Christmas Eve I was almost shitting myself with fear. And then I actually did shit myself, just a little bit. The drugs have played havoc with my insides. So I ran to the toilet and when I came out of the toilet I got a nosebleed. People were properly moving out of my way. One woman grabbed her kids and ran. It was horrible. And this on Christmas Eve, of all days. Season of goodwill! When we’re supposed to be looking after our fellow men, people saw me in distress and legged it.

I didn’t have time to worry too much, though, as I had Roger’s destruction on my mind.

I got on the train and managed to get a seat, which was great. After a couple of cans of Cobra (I’d brought them with me. One of the great barbarisms of our national rail network is the onboard lager selection) I was feeling a little bit calmer. I stuck my ipod on and settled down for the journey.

Mum met me at the other end. She said:

“Are you alright, love? You look terrible. And what in God’s name have you done with your hair? I know it was thinning a bit on top, but you didn’t have to go and shave it all off. You look like one of those football hooligans from the eighties.”

My hair is NOT thinning on top, readers. It’s a fact that my Mum is five foot three and I’m only a shade under six foot. She hasn’t seen the top of my head since I was eleven. I don’t know what the bloody hell she was talking about.

“Roger couldn’t come with me to pick you up,” she said. “His Mum doesn’t like being left alone. She’s remarkable, really. She’s 96, you know.”

I should point out here that I don’t much like old ladies. I had a very nasty experience with one once. And not like that, if any of you are thinking mucky thoughts. I’m not Wayne bloody Rooney.

No, I was visiting my Gran in hospital. I loved my Gran, and I’m not afraid to say it. Unfortunately she was well on the way to losing her marbles at this stage and, in many ways, had reverted to a kind of childhood. Certainly a lot of words were coming out of her mouth that I had never heard her say. I guess that generation was never really able to shake off the prejudices of their upbringing. It’s sad.

It’s like my Great Aunty Em. When I was about eleven, just as Mum was bidding farewell to the top of my head forever, I went round to see Great Aunty Em. It was the fashion at the time for boys at my school to wear St Christopher’s medals round our necks. Great Aunty Em opened the door and instead of giving me a mint humbug and a wet kiss she narrowed her eyes, pointed at my necklace and said: “That’s not one of them Stars of David, is it? Cos you’re not coming in if it is.” How’s that for open mindedness. Looking back now I realise she must have been pretty stupid. Not many kids up and convert to Judaism at the age of eleven, after all. There was only one who did at my school. Poor old Aashif. His parents didn’t speak to him for a month. He had to go and live with Mr Cohen, our guitar teacher. And that sparked a few rumours.

Anyway, Aunty Em didn’t have it easy looking after her husband, Terry. He went soft in the head and started rolling his shit into little balls and putting them into an empty Maltesers box, which he’d offer to visitors. Disgusting, really. He was bloody good at table tennis, though. County champion, or something. That’s how he’d want to be remembered, I think, not as some mephitic old goat playing in his own filth.

Anyway, I was visiting my Gran in hospital and she was sharing a room with an old lady called Elsie. Every time the nurse came in, she’d shout at Elsie (in a nice way, because Elsie was deaf as a brick):

“HOW ARE YOU TODAY ELSIE? ARE YOU OK?”

And then she’d turn to me and shout:

“SHE’S A HUNDRED AND SEVEN, YOU KNOW.”

And I’d say:

“You don’t need to shout at me, Nurse, my hearing’s fine, thanks.”

And then my Nan would whisper to me:

“There are lots of darkies in here, aren’t there.”

And the Nurse would say:

“My hearing’s very good as well, you know, Mrs Deakins,” and then she’d tut and walk out.

And that’s kind of how it went, round and round and round. Anyway, one day, I was visiting Gran and Elsie, who had been asleep when I arrived, started to moan. She said:

“Help…. Help me.”

Naturally I pretended that I couldn’t hear her, it was a very quite moan, so I was within my rights. I don’t need to be administering first aid to an old lady. Even though I did go on a course when I was in the scouts. But she kept it up:

“Help me… Help me….”

It was a pathetic sound really, and she was trying to reach for the panic button. After a few minutes I got up and went over to Elsie’s bed. I shouted:

“ARE YOU OK, ELSIE? DO YOU WANT ME TO CALL THE DOCTOR?”

And she said:

“Help me…” and carried on trying to press the button.

So I said:

“DO YOU WANT ME TO PRESS THE BUTTON AND CALL THE DOCTOR ELSIE?”

And she said:

“Help me…”

So I pressed the button. As soon as I’d done that, she sat bolt upright, laughing and said:

“He he he he, now you’re in trouble.”

And I bloody was, too. I didn’t get to see Gran again until she was put in the home. And by then she’d gone completely. It wasn’t much fun in there. I tell you what, if I lose my marbles, give me the pillow and don’t let up ‘til my feet stop twitching.

Anyway, I’ve gone right off piste, haven’t I. I was supposed to be telling you about what happened up in Lincoln with my final big push to out Roger. Unfortunately I’ve got to go see a man about a dog, so I’m going to have to give you the low down tomorrow.

Hope you had a better one than I did.

Love

BN

A very unholy trinity

I am scared readers, it's not just a drug-induced paranoid psychosis either. Dippy has revealed the final three drugs of Christmas. She's gone just a touch mental I think. They are seriously hardcore.

We had magic mushroom tea last night and, well, things didn't quite go to plan I don't think. In short, nothing really happened. Dippy got a bunch of candles out and put on some Gregorian chant and we stared into the flames. We were naked readers, I don't mind telling you that, there's nothing wrong with the naked body, but having the two Larsons grinning over at me was quite off-putting. And, well, Dippy is off-setting her Carbon footprint, so the heating wasn't on and so it was quite cold, that's all I'm saying.

We sat around in a circle for about an hour, no one said anything, and nothing happened. The flames of the candles kept flickering and the Gregorian chant kept chanting. Dippy's nipples went like battleship rivets, and she was covered in goose bumps. But nothing really happened, no out of body or mind experiences, no doors opening into a whole new perception reality. Just the occasional fart befunking the atmosphere.

Eventually we were faced with the very uncomfortable truth that, like it says in the song, the drugs didn't work. (I know it says in the song "don't work" but some of them do, but not this one.)

Anyone who's anyone that's dabbled in Dr Uggs will know the feeling that you've been had by a dealer. It comes with the territory. Who among us hasn't bought a bag of potpourri from a traveller's urchin when the fair comes to town?

But Dippy went absolutely balistic, totally going off on one about how the dealer had 'fucked up Christmas', 'ruined everything'. I tried to calm her down by pointing out the inherent irony that the arts project, which was set up to demonstrate that religion is a drug which mankind can break, was broken by a false narcotic itself. That she had put her faith in a Camden-based shaman who had peddled nothing but hollow promises. "Fuck off, Barry," she said, "sometimes I get the impression you're only here to look at me tits."

'Fair cop, ' I thought as I looked at her tits. Mesmerized for a second I was, but the spell was broken when one of the Larsons got up and announced he'd get on the phone to his dealer and get in some supplies.

Well, Dippy jumped into life at this point and announced that the final three drugs of Christmas would have to be pretty fucking mental.

I'm totally crapping it readers, all the drugs so far have been fairly manageable, but over the next three days I get the feeling we're in for quite the ride.

Very shortly, Dippy will be doing what MLS warned against just the other day, she'll be opening up the advent calendar and finding a deeply suspicious looking crack behind the door. Jesus, like millions of you out there, I saw Whitney Houston on the X-Factor. If crack can do that to Houston, I don't stand a chance.

Then tomorrow Dippy has lined crystal meth. FUCK. I've got no idea what it does, but in the words of Super Hands out of Peep Show, it's quite moorish apparently.

Then on Christmas Eve itself, when supposedly the Arch Angel Gabriel Batistuta came down from Heaven and told the shepherds about the baby Jesus, we'll be doing our own version of the nativity with PCP - that's Angel Dust to you and me.

I thought that we had Angel Dust at school, it was a kind of super sweet candy that crackled on your tongue, but I've been put right, I think I was possibly mixing it with Angel Delight and Star Dust. Maybe that's what PCP is?? I dunno, but apparently Angel Dust makes you feel invincible, much like having about 12 cans of Cobra, the only difference is, it doesn't knock you out. Far from it.

I don't think that I'll be any kind of fit state to post over the next three days. But if you see a story on the news about a middle-aged, yet youthful looking, Citizen Journalist jumping off the Millennium Eye - it'll probably be me.

But know this readers, I did it out of love, and not just because Dippy's tits are to die for.

Yours in love

Barrington E Newsdesk
x

An apology

OYG readers, I've just finished reading Dave the roofer's rant. I feel I need to humbly apologise to the blogosphere for the lowering of tone caused by his foul-mouthed tirade.

I know you're reading this Dave. You've sunk to new depths, you really have. As if sleeping with my ex wasn't bad enough, you then you knocked her up, now you've insulted my craft.

Insulting the blogosphere is beyond acceptance. I've changed the log-in details so hopefully there'll be no more unwanted visits or posts from the roofing fraternity.

Thing is Dave, I wish you'd ranted before I'd ordered C.N. Mindham's Roof Conversion and Loft Conversion (paperback) on Amazon.ca.

I hope you're enjoying the minus 45C Edmonton winter by the way!!!!!

I also feel I should offer a particularly heartfelt apology to Mr UberGrumpy. Not just for Dave the roofer's attack, but also because I wrote something that made you follow me, only to write something that made you unfollow me and publicly let the world know. I think I know how Jesus must have felt the night Judas fingered him to the Romans.

If you've not seen Uber's blog, I suggest you check it out, he might not be following me, but I still support him. Uber has a host of blogger awards to his name and has generated (at the time of blogging) a followership of 60! His blog isn't a patch on Mr London Street's, however, he does feature a soft porn picture of an attractive lady on his blog posts, so it's still worth having a look.

I would have blogged sooner, but I've only just come around from my opiate-induced comaette. After the speed-based activities of Friday evening, Dippy and I slowed things down on Saturday with some laudanum. It's quite an old fashioned drug readers, and like strict discipline, sexual repression and ingenius feats of engineering, it tends to be associated with the Victorians. These days you can usually find some in old people's homes - along with strict discipline, sexual repression and ingenius feats of engineering.

I can't say I particulalrly enjoyed the laudanum, but at least I got some sleep. I'd give Phyllosan a crack, as it seems to be doing MrC the power of good, but Dippy is in the driving seat drugwise. I've got the feeling she's building up to something quite major as she's insisted we take it quite easy with today's drug of Christmas.

We're going to have a few cups of tea tonight readers, sounds quite civilised doesn't it? Tea made Britain great ater all. Although, Dippy did go out to pick up the 'shrooms from a bloke she knows in Camden, so (your)God only knows what'll happen.

The last time I had the mushies, I spent eight solid hours talking to Steve's cat, Phillip. Phillip was unusual for a couple of reasons, first he was a she. I'm not talking about a transexual cat, although that would be quite intriguing. No, it was just a girl cat that Steve had called Phillip, although the reason was unclear and Steve did get a bit defensive whenever questioned on the matter. Second Phillip was odd because she had six toes. As you can probably well imagine, a six-toed trans-gender feline was quite the oddity in Lincoln, even more so after imbibing hallucinogens.

Anyhoo, peace out blogosphere and, once again, please accept my apologies for Dave's rant.

Love

Bazzler
x

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.

speed makes your dick shrink but you don't really care but you do care but you don't until it's too late then you care but then it's too late

I worked in Butlins when I was a student, just in the summer break it was, Skegness. I was a waiter, not in a cocktail bar, I was struggling for work that summer, but needed to get away from Mum, I needed to get away from Lincoln too and Trent poly (your) God I only wish I'd met Mr C back then. Seven days a week we worked, seven, no rest for the wicked. Up at six, off to do a morning shift, you start off with like one or two tables of six to eight and you slowly work your way up to a station of ten, ten tables of six to eight, that's a lot of fucking grub to serve up and you've got two hours to serve up to 80 breakfasts too, 80, eight, zero, and you don't just rock up and dish out the Cornflakes, I mean you do, you do dish out Cornflakes, but they have the option, the campers, the diners, they get to say what they want, but you already know what they want becasue they choose what they want the night before, Cornflakes, Sugar Puffs, Snap Crackle and Pop, porridge, I can't remember all the options, but they get a choice, then you take them tea or coffee, tea or coffee or orange or all three and water, tea and coffee and orange and water and toast, plenty of toast. You got your toast from the toastman. I. AM. TELLING. YOU. The toastman was without doubt the man of power at Butlins. Not only could he fuck you up, fuck you backwards and sideways and all ways by not giving you the toast on time, honestly, you could have a perfect shift, a perfect shift of delivering the breakfasts and then the toastman woulnd't deliver. That was it, that was your tip gone. And the tips were what we lived on, wages were like £2 per hour, and we did two three hour shifts per day, for seven days a week, but the waiters earned the big bucks at Butlins, more than the red coats, because the waiters got the tips, with a station of ten tables of eight, and a tenner per table, which was by no means uncommon, that was you sorted with an extra £100 on a Friday night, and that's when you needed to know the toastman. After you'd finished your dinner shift, after you'd been asleep all day after breakfast and you'd been to slop out the mush that was passing itself off as food, starters, mains and puddings, teas and coffees, you'd get your tips. Then after you wished the campers well and thanked them all for a wonderful week, a wonderful week of laughing at their jokes and of telling them about your life, and how you're a student and need the money to help pay your rent, you get back to the chalet, you get your glad rags on and you get yourself out to the Enchanted Castle. Before 8pm, the Enchanted Castle is a great big warehouse of a venue full of kids playing video game machine and going nuts on Coke and lemonade, after 8pm the Butlins staff make an orderly queue to see the toastman, it's not the first time they've been in his company that day, but this time you don't want toast, you want something all together more uplifting, something that is going to get you through the hours of mindless Europop while you try in vain to get yourself laid with that girl from Scunthorpe and so you get yourself a couple of wraps of pink champagne, a glucose-enriched amphetamine. It's speed Jim but not as you know it, it's the kind that keeps you drinking the £1 bottles of turbo cider until the early hours, until you pass out from exhaustion, then wake up and six am and do it all again. Morning campers, Hi-di-fucking-hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Journey to the centre of the K hole

Hey readers, I tell you what, please ignore all that stuff I wrote about wanting you to take acid. I had the worst stomach ache of my life for five hours and I was a right old mess. I re-read what I’d written and, wtf? What a load of old bollocks! I’m embarrassed, to be honest with you.

Hello to my new follower Kate, btw. Nice to see you but, take my advice, steer clear of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds!

The thing is, this arts project is getting a bit out of hand. But when it comes to Dippy, I’m just a guy who can’t say “no” and the sixth drug of Christmas was quite something else. I’m not sure exactly what though. Jesus drugs are quite dangerous, dangerous but quite the experience.

And I have just had quite the experience, I can tell you that for the price of nothing. I am just back from what is known in the parlance of those who know as the ‘K-hole’. I did intend to blog about my first experience of ketamine, otherwise known as K, as it happened, but I was too fucked to type. Actually, out of my face doesn’t even come close – I spent 20 minutes thinking I was nothing but a little white box with the letter P on it. WTF?!

Madonna was wrong by the way – K is no way better than ecstasy. Then again, she is about 70 or something and has probably done the 12 drugs of Christmas more than once, especially since she used to go out with gangsters like Ice T.

Anyway, I digress, I was going to tell you about my experience in the K-hole. It was actually pretty scary from start to finish. Dippy reckons she’s done K loads, so I followed her lead. Apparently K is quite hard to get hold of on the street these days, but Dippy said we’d be able to get some at this squat party. It was one of those ones where you have to phone a mobile number an hour before it starts to get the address, which was some disused warehouse on the A406, near the big Staples.

It was like that party where I met Dips, it was like a drugs sweet shop. Everyone was fucked out of their minds. There were tramps with dogs on string smoking crack out of beer tins, prossies touting their wares and little kids of about 14 running around selling acid, I’m not touching that again in a hurry. There was even a stall set up in the corner, just selling drugs openly. It was brilliant, just a great big two finger salute to The Man, like we were all saying, “you can’t keep us down, because we’re free thinkers! You can’t keep us boxed up, because in here, we are no longer in your world and we can access the truth!” So we bought three grams of K from the shop and Dippy was all like “let’s just do it now,” but I didn’t want to taint my first experience in such a weird vibed environment, so I said we should go home.

Lucky we did too – the pigs were outside waiting for the party to die down enough to charge in and beat everyone up probably. I thought they might shake us down, but I outsmarted them. I hid the wraps of K in an open packet of smoky bacon crisps I had. They didn’t stop us but it would have been ironical if they had – smoky bacon – pigs. Lol!!

So back at home Dippy racked up two fat lines of K. Apparently you can’t die or overdose on K. It’s actually a horse tranquiliser, and they used it as a field anaesthetic in ‘Nam, for that very reason. That you can’t OD on it, not that it’s a horse tranquiliser. They didn’t have horses in ‘Nam. Probably because they were all eaten by the Viet Cong.

Anyway, K is a dissasociative, which means it makes your mind feel as though it’s outside of your body. Far out man! But [your]God that stuff is awful! It hits you pretty much instantaneously and you just lose control of your motor functions. It’s like you’re a passenger in your own head, watching your body move around like a Thunderbirds puppet. It’s a really disorientating experience and it makes you feel sick. I had to crawl on my hands and knees to the lav so I could worship the porcelain altar, because I swear to [your] God I thought I was sitting on the ceiling. Dippy didn’t even make it that far, she puked down the side of the sofa. It was like the room was spinning so I just had to ride out the rest of the trip laying on the bathroom floor. I don’t even know how long it lasted ‘cos time just seemed to loop in on itself, like it was infinite or something. And just as I was coming round again Dippy said we should do another line, and then she said that having sex on K is a really weird experience. So I saw my chance here readers, I said we should try it then, you know, for the sake of research ;-) afterwards we could always say it was the drugs talking. Dippy was up for it which was brilliant because I’ve been wanking like a trooper lately and I really needed a chance to properly clean out the pipes. But as soon as we got our kit off (Dippy has amazingly pert knockers BTW!) it all went wrong… Now I’m not talking brewer’s droop, everyone knows that happens often after a night on the sauce and it’s nothing to worry about, but this was different. Suddenly I felt as though I was in the centre of a Roman amphitheatre, about to do the deed with thousands of people watching from the stalls. And the crazy thing is that I could see myself from the crowd’s eye point of view, and there at the front of the crowd was Dan, looking at me all accusingly. I know none of this was really happening but it was like I was a passenger in my own nightmare, while myself was acting of its own accord. It gave me stage fright, my knob shrunk to an acorn, Dippy got the hump and the moment was ruined. I needed a couple of Cobras to get myself back together but it’s a bit awkward with Dippy still.

I’m never doing that again.