565 Words Of Despair

When I first heard about “50 Shades Of Grey”, I was astounded to find so many people reading John Major’s autobiography. After a while, I realised that our former, monochromatic Prime Minister does not feature at all and instead the book is about sex, romance, sex, more sex and possibly butt plugs.

I could talk about the woeful double standard in Facebook statuses, with women frequently talking about their desire to have a fictional character riding them like the 50p rides outside Tesco, even though I would be viciously chastised for pointing out that Holly Willoughby has a pair of breasts with which I would like to become better acquainted. But I won’t.

The truth is, i’ve no issue with the book itself, having not read it and I certainly have no problem with women frotting themselves silly over it. None of my business and go you ahead. My only issue is tediom. Every other Facebook status which pops up on my timeline is about this book. Every. Other. Status. As with anything, if it is overhyped I become instantly agitated by it and have had to place the book on a ban, I won’t be reading it unless people shut the fuck up about it for a while. Look at Avatar. So many people told me that I had to watch it because “IT AM DA BESTEST MOVIE FILM EVER OMFG BBQ BSE CJD HMS!” that to this day I still can’t bring myself to sit down and give it a go.

Still, as no-one on Facebook is willing to talk about anything else, I decided to piece together the plot from assorted statuses so I could join the conversation. So here’s what happens in “50 Shades Of Grey”. Possibly.

There is a man called Mr Grey. His first name is Christian. Or he IS a Christian. Not sure. Either way, he is endowed with a member so awe-inspiring that it brings sexual gratification to women at the mere mention of it’s engorged wossname.

This sexual messiah meets a young woman, her name doesn’t matter because she’s essentially an “Insert Your Self Here” template known in fan-fiction circles as a “Mary Sue”. Young Mary Sue is a virgin, which Mr Grey believes to be some sort of illness which he immediately sets out to cure by ravishing her in ways most unholy. Inexplicably, she decides against reporting him to the nearest authority and/or biting his nadgers off, instead choosing to live a life of debauchery and depravity…OK, perhaps not so inexplicable. Nice work if you can get it.

Either way, Mr Grey requires that she must sign a contract. I’m not sure what this contract entails, perhaps it’s an album deal? I assume that she showed some musical talent while screaming his name and he decided to make her a star. That’s probably it.

To celebrate their new partnership and imminent musical fame, they visit a restaurant called “The Red Room”. They then make passionate love on the sweet cart, shocking all present and completely ruining the blancmange.

At this point, you reach the centre of the book. You know how movie novelisations often use this space for photographs from the film? 50 Shades Of Grey has a packet of moist towelletes for clean up.

That’s all i’ve been able to figure out from Facebook updates, if I get any more details i’ll keep you posted. Happy wanking.

It’s All Gone A Bit Far

A news story, brought to my attention by the always lovely Flayman, has me frothing at the mouth more than i’ve ever mouth-frothed and by CRIKEY I have frothed in the past. The story concerns a young lad who decided to make a joke on Facebook. A joke about riots. Here, have a read of this.

When first wondering how best to address this issue, all I could come up with was BALLS! BALLS! BALLS BALLS BALLS BALLS BALLS!!! It’s ridiculous. This lad decided to have a bit of a laugh at the expense of a difficult time. Fair dinkum. When I heard that Pavarotti had died my immediate reaction was to make a joke about the Three Tenors being down to a score. Not my best work and most assuredly in bad taste but if you don’t laugh at all the awful crap that goes on in this world, you’ll never stop crying.

Now this chap faces a “lengthy custodial sentence”, which is quite frankly a fucking outrage. You know what a suitable punishment would be? Sod all, obviously, but if the judicial types are dead set on giving him a telling off, i’d like to see this happen…

JUDGE: “You have been found guilty of breach of the peace, somehow. We’re not sure how. Stupid really, huh? Ah well, i’ve got to do something about it now I suppose.”

LAD: “It was a joke, your honour. I’m truly sorry.”

JUDGE: “Obviously it was a joke, but it’s these damnable jobsworths you see, my hands are tied.”

LAD: “I understand. I hope you won’t be too hard on me?”

JUDGE: “I’ve no idea. Not a custodial sentence, obviously. That would be sodding ridiculous, right?”

*laughter throughout the court*

JUDGE: “Well, do you promise to delete any friends from Facebook who might be stupid enough to think you actually wanted them to riot?”

LAD: “Absolutely!”

JUDGE: “Good enough for me. On you go, you cheeky wee scamp”

That would do me. What i’d really like to see, mind you…

JUDGE: “He’s up for what? Bollocks! Case dismissed.”

But that won’t happen. Here’s my favourite piece of drivel from the article.

Sheriff George Way deferred sentence until next month for background reports – and released Allan on bail conditions including a ban on using the internet.

But he warned Allan: “On a comparative basis a very lengthy custodial sentence is inevitable.”

Inevitable. In-fecking-evitable. How? How is it inevitable? Surely common sense and basic human bloody decency should prevail here. Someone has to look at this case and say “Y’know, sending this lad down for several years…well, that’s just bloody stupid”.

But no, that won’t happen. Do you know why? Because people are that stupid.
I tell you, it’s enough to make me want to riot.


We're all the same apparently.

According to certain religions (and we won’t be going into this too heavily because quite frankly religion angers me) man was created first and then the Big Beard in the Sky knocked up woman out of spare parts ’cause we were lonely.

One would assume that, had Adam not have been whining on about having no-one to talk to, God would have made other arrangements with regards to breeding and such and woman would never have come to be.

Sometimes, just sometimes, you kinda wish Adam hadn’t have shot his mouth off.

Don’t get me wrong, I like-a the ladies, but given the constant torrent of “man bashing” on Facebook of late I felt that it was our turn.

So much utter tripe is spewed by the female of the species that I felt it was time to address some of their most pressing concerns.


Would it be fair to say that when looking around a bar or club, your eye is inexorably drawn to pretty girls? Yes

Does everyone have different ideas as to what is in fact attractive, the old beauty, eye, beholder bit? Yes

Doesn’t that negate the shallow part of the argument because at the end of the day different people are attracted to different physical types? Of course

Are men able to read a woman’s mind at the moment he glances at her and discern whether or not he would like to get to know her based on his Vulcan mind meld appraisal of her personality? No

Is the female argument here actually a load of old cobblers? Certainly


What women are trying to tell you here is that all men are lazy.
No, no we’re not.
I do plenty around the house, which means I am not lazy.
To fit into the generalisation, given that i’m not bone idle as theory suggest, I must therefore be a woman.
Having glanced down, my genitalia seem to be male and in full working order, so I think we’ve quelled that particular issue girls.
Not all men are lazy, if your partner is, get rid of him and find one who’ll cater to your every whim as you are secretly hoping or tell him to pull his finger out and help.
Either way, don’t tar us all with the same brush.


Only a woman could, without any trace of humour, complain about the fact that the person they are with finds them desirable and would like the opportunity to express that love through the act of intercourse, or “bumping uglies” for the less literate among you.

That being said, it’s not all we think about, there’s lots in our minds.
Let me give you a brief insight into my thought processes, we’ll take it from just after the kids head to bed and calm settles o’er the house:

“Hmm, what to do tonight, watch a DVD? Play a little X-Box? Hey wasn’t that Doctor Who special on tonight? I could do with a snack. I’ll see if the missus fancies a cuppa that’d be nice. Bless her she looks tired. Maybe i’ll rub her feet. Hey if I do, she might have sex with me! Mmmm, sex”

You see, there was plenty of stuff in there which wasn’t about sex.
What you girls need to be saying is “OMG THEY THINK ABOUT ALL SORTS, IT JUST ALWAYS ENDS UP AT SEX!!!”
And then you need to shut up complaining about it because the fact that we want to have sex with you means we find you attractive which is a good thing, although I expect we’re just being shallow.

I have more, but I think i’ll settle in to watch the hate (fe)mail roll on in.

Love you girls.

Snow Day

Over the past few days I found myself become increasingly irritated by the mass of posts to Facebook and Twitter, all saying essentially the same thing.
Sweet, weeping Jesus people!
Ok, so meteorology is just guesswork with a fancy name, but nevertheless, they forecast snow, all you had to do was wait to see if it did in fact happen.

Of course, the moment snow was forecast, the panic began.
January 5th, the day before half of Britain disappeared under a blanket of white, we nipped to Tesco for a few odds and ends.
Huge mistake…
Never before have I seen an elderly woman bulk buying kitty litter with such an expression of mortal dread.
I can only assume cat’s defecate more when it’s cold?
Granted, considering the weather warnings, picking up essentials before the snow hit was in fact a sensible plan.
This does not mean that I expect to be horribly trampled in the rush for the last few boxes of Sugar Puffs.

Having returned from the riot, beaten and bruised, we settled in to await the coming of the dreaded snow.
In a truly astonishing turn of events, the Met Office was proven right for once and we awoke on January 6th to find ourselves snowed in, trapped with no hope of escape.
I could not have been happier at that moment.
An unquestionable excuse to avoid the outside world? Heaven.

My joy was shortlived however, when I logged on to Facebook.
Yes. It snowed. Thank you for the update.

Having said all of that, who doesn’t love the snow?
Staring out over a crisp blanket of white, snowball fights, zooming down the hills on a bright red sledge and, best of all, building a snowman.
I love to see children at play, rolling huge balls of snow down hills to build the biggest snowman possible, slapping a hat on his head and popping on a carrot for the nose, seeing the horrified expressions on their little faces as I arrive with my flamethrower…

Have fun in the snow folks

Al out.