Backbiting Bastards!

Yeah, I’m gonna rant again.

Why?

Cos it’s my blog and I can.

And guess what? Surprise, Surprise, it’s about the NHS again.

I’ve lost count over the past year or so that I’ve heard of. Of people with a bad back who wait for fucking months if not years to have a problem sorted.

Doctors piss ball about giving us paracetamol, ibuprofen, diclofenac, tramacet, oxy contin you name it. (sod the spelling of some of those names, i’m not a doctor and i’m in too much fucking pain to sit and google them)

They spend so long just knocking pills down our necks before the penny drops that there’s a problem lying deeper within. And then they start to have it investigated.

Then we get the poxy xray. That tells us indeedy that we have a problem. So we suffer another year or six while the problem gets worse and worse before they offer us an MRI scan or whatever.

Now call me fuckin stupid (you may as well do, most people do) but wouldn’t it be cheaper in the long run that if someone goes into the doctors surgery in obvious pain that they would order up a scan so they could see the real problem early on and have the fucker fixed? If it can be fixed. Or at least advise on how to stop it getting worse?

All these appointments back and forth to the doctors. All these bloody perscriptions, the endless visits to physiotherapists (even if they are stunners) are a complete waste of money. And who da fuck wants to pay £6.85 for a few paracetamol in the chemist when they can get them in Tesco for a few pence anyway.

A scan looks deep inside the body and shows up everything. I’m no expert but it’s what I’m led to believe. Here is a scan taken of someone who has been suffering of a bad back for more years than she fucking cares to remember. It shows where the damage is (the red dotted area) apparently the disc is well fucked up. So all the years of taking pills. Getting zapped with fuck knows what in xrays etc, did sweet fanny adams to help her. And you can bet yer bottom dollar that there’s hundreds of thousands just like it in the UK.

The government should stop acting like complete fuckwits, put the money into scanners and training up the staff to work them and help us all out.

And don’t give me all that shite about the price of a scanner. How much do we fork out for fucking fighter jets and nuclear submarines and politicians afternoon tea in Westminster. (let’s not mention the swingers clubs, strippers and prostitutes, that’s a different piece of blog fodder)

I’m sick to fucking death with it and mad as blue blazes. It’s a fucking joke!

Right, rant over. Well for now anyway. But something tells me you’ve not heard the end of this.

Angelina Jolie? watch out. You could very well be next on my hit list.

Hot Stuff

I am currently a man of leisure, not through choice might I add, which means I have been eating a lot of toast and drinking a lot of tea. In order to spice things up a bit, and keep it interesting, I have taken to putting cheese on top of the toast (Irish mature cheddar if you are interested).

This has meant some limited interaction with the grill that is part of my oven unit. It is hot. Really really fucking hot. I know this after catching the back of my hand on it whilst removing my delicious cheese on toast. It made me use swear words that have not even been made up yet.
Why do burns hurt so much? Don’t get me wrong, I understand the evolutionary imperative for pain, and it being used to prevent us doing things that could harm us. Which is probably why you never see cave drawings of cavemen with cheese toasties. But why do they hurt so much? And for so long?

I have broken bones, dislocated things, grazed things, pulled things and been kicked in the nads on more than one occasion. All of which hurt. But none of which hurt for as long and as intensely as a burn.

What is mother nature trying to tell us? That grilling cheese on toast is more dangerous than falling down the stairs or being hit in the knackers by the shoe of a former loved one? And to make matters worse, it welds itself to the roof of your mouth!

Because that is what I am assuming at the moment.

RaTattoooeeee

There are ‘not bad’ tattoos, and there are really shit tattoos.

A good tattoo is a nice design at the base of a woman’s spine. This can, sometimes, be a thing of beauty. It is also a sign that the woman has a reasonable pain threshold so a bit of bum-fun might be on the agenda.

A bad tattoo is usually adorning a fat man and will likely be a picture of a football club crest, or a name across his knuckles.

Then there is a Tramp Stamp.

The Tramp Stamp is usually found on or near the tits of a portly chavette, and if your eyes can become accustomed to the glare from the copious amounts of Elizabeth Duke on her wrists, hands, ears and neck, you might be able to see it. It is normally distorted due to the muffin top action going on either side, but if you can make out the drooping pattern, then I am afraid to say that you are probably too close for comfort.

If you dare to look closely just under the hairline of these chav types, you will see the numbers 666 tattooed there too.

Please tell me none of you have one. Especially the women.

Dumber And Dumbest

Laptop: You think you’re fucking great.

Me: What?

Laptop: You and your poxy blog. You think you’re the dog’s bollix.

Me: What are you on about?

Laptop: You go online every day typing total crap and think yer remotely funny

Me: You’re just jealous because you didn’t do one

Laptop: Jayzus! You wouldn’t have one if it wasn’t for me and my mate desktop over there.

Me: How do you work that out?

Laptop: You honestly think you would spout that bullshit down on paper in longhand with a pen and ink? No way, baby! The only reason you do itis because I take your bullshit, spruce it up a bit and add a bit of humour. Don’t flatter yourself.

Me: Good. You can help me with the book then.

Laptop: Book? What book?

Me: The one I’m going to write.

Laptop: Oh fuck! Don’t make me laugh! You, write a book? So what is the title of this great work then?

Me: I was thinking of “Dumber And Dumbest”.

Laptop: What the fuck……? What kind of book is this going to be?

Me: A sort of cross between Pete Doherty and Kate Moss?

Laptop: Oh Christ!

Me: It’ll be great. everyone will want to read it.

Laptop: Yeah! And everyone will want barbed wire shoved up their hole!

Me: Do you have to be so coarse all the time?

Laptop: Me? Coarse? You’ll have to think a lot coarser than that if you want to write like Pete Doherty. And you are going to have to dumb things down a hell of a lot. If that’s possible.

Me: Are you saying I’m dumb?

Laptop: Listen, Kid. You are dumb. But compared to those two, you are fucking Einstein.

Me: So what are we going to do about it?

Laptop: You just fuck off back to bed. I’ll have the first ten chapters ready when you get up later.

Me: Thanks.

Laptop: Don’t mention it, Old Sport.

Mr Penis Complains!

Mr Penis was feeling pretty pissed off and fed up with his lot one day and decides that it was time to complain to his boss.

Dear Madam,

I think it’s high time I had a raise for the following reasons.

My work is very physical
I work at great depths.
I plunge headfirst into everything I do.
I do not get weekends or public holidays off.
I work in a damp environment.
I work in a dark workplace that has poor ventilation.
I work in high temperatures.
My work exposes me to contagious diseases.

yours sincerely,

P. Niss.

His boss read the letter very carefully and responded as follows.

Dear Mr Penis,

After assessing your request, and considering the arguments you have raised, the administration rejects your request for the following reasons:

You do not work 8 hours straight.
You fall asleep after brief work periods.
You do not always follow the orders of the management team.
You do not stay in your designated area and are often seen visiting other locations.
You do not take initiative – you need to be pressured and stimulated in order to start working.
You leave the workplace rather messy at the end of your shift.
You don’t always observe necessary safety regulations, such as wearing the correct protective clothing.
You will retire well before you are 65.
You are unable to work double shifts.
You sometimes leave your designated work area before you have completed the assigned task.
And if that were not all, you have been seen constantly entering and exiting the workplace carrying two suspicious-looking bags.

Yours sincerely,

V. Gina.

Cupids Arrow

Theres no doubt about it. That Cupid fella is some pup. He did something that politicians for 30 odd years couldn’t do. Yep he struck hard and brought Ian Paisley and Gerry Adams together. Good Innit?

For those of you who have been on Planet Gogginschniffel, here’s what’s happened.

The true romance tale that we thought would never come to pass has been revealed in all its glory. ‘Whispering’ Ian Paisley (Unionist, Protestant, shouty, a Reverend) and Gerry Adams (Republican, Catholic, beardy, who for some years couldn’t use his own voice on television, being impersonated instead by a squeaky glove puppet) have come out of the closet and declared that they are ‘an item’. It’s love, folks. It’s lurve. And now for the past few months since the Northern Ireland Assembly has been up and running, they just can’t get enouogh of each other.

From 8 May, Ian and Gerry have been ‘power-sharing’ in Northern Ireland. Power. Mmhmm. Growl. Grr. Naughty boys. To explain, ‘power-sharing’ is a little like a sexual relationship based on principles of domination and submission. Sometimes Gerry will be on top, sometimes Ian. Sometimes Ian will give and Gerry will receive, other times vice versa. But in the true spirit of political co-operation and intermingling of bodily fluids, they will both clean up the mess afterwards.

Take a look at the photograph above and tell me that it doesn’t soften your stony heart. Tell me that you can’t spot the twinkle in Ian’s and Gerry’s moist eyes as they enjoy a romantic dinner for two at Stormont. Tell me that you don’t secretly wish that they were actually holding hands. Bless. This picture fills me with a definite warm and fuzzy feeling, so it does, to be sure, to be sure. (Please insert other typically irish phrases here which communicate similar levels of vigorously nodding agreement.)

Without wishing to express any doubts about this arrangement, I can imagine that some occasions in the future will undoubtedly find Ian – he of the powerful voice that pings the pointer into the red on the decibel monitor, even when he’s whispering sweet nothings into Gerry’s ear – hollering “I’m in charge! I’m in charge! May God have mercy upon your soul!” Fortunately, however, I’m sure that Gerry will know how to respond. He will merely stroke his fulsomely beardy chin in a thoughtful manner, give his power-sharing other half his foxiest narrow-eyed stare through his steamed-up spectacles, and remind the good Reverend that he had better behave himself or else ‘Mad’ Martin McGuinness will be unleashed from his hiding-place in the wardrobe to administer a sound spanking. Or a ‘punishment beating’, as I believe they’re called. Or maybe I don’t mean that at all. Maybe I just mean a thorough talking-to. Yes, a thorough talking-to, that’s right.

To conclude, such a balance of power can only be a Good Thing. A Good Thing rather than a Bad Idea. It paves the way for the future – a future where the governance of Northern Ireland always runs smoothly. Where peace and political co-operation reigns forevermore. Until the next time it doesn’t, of course.

Or to put it another way, and to flagrantly appropriate then misquote the favourite catchphrase of that sports commentator whose name I can never remember: mark my words, they’ll be dancing in the terraced streets of the Falls and Shankill Roads tonight.

Is it just me or are the names of those roads rather ominous anyway?.. I digress.

Yesterday Martin McGuinness was overheard telling Ian Paisley a joke. The caption to this reads as follows

“Hey big Ian, wait’ll ya hear this one, it’s a cracker”

“Go on Marty my new best friend”

“The US government has warned its citizens to be on the lookout for a new breed of Islamic terrorist. Recent reports suggest that they set upon people in secluded areas before rigorously sodomising them and then killing themselves”.

“Just what the world needs. Suicide bummers”.

“Ah ba jaysus, Marty that’s a goodun. Where’s Reg Empey? Have ya told him it?”

The irony of the situation over here is that for the final signing of our wee agreement. Paisley went into the Republic Of Ireland to the site of The Battle Of The Boyne. I won’t give yas a history lesson. And I kid you not folks. As a show of goodwill and a little present. The big fella presented Berty Ahern with, get this lol.

A gun that was used on the said battle!

I nearly wet myself laughing when I saw this on the news. I could almost hear the paramilitary organisations screaming at their TV sets. “We aren’t giving up our guns”

Just as well there’s no customs posts on the border between north and south anymore! Big Ian might have been arrested for arms smuggling lololol…

The caption to that picture could have read.

“I wanted to give you this a long time ago Berty, but it’s not loaded anymore”

Keep up the good work gents. Lets not waste another thirty years eh?

Open Letter To My Future Children

Hey guys, dad just wants a wee chat with you, so listen up.

No no, put down the headphones, it’s not that kind of chat.

You might think that I’m the most weird, square and unhip person that you know, but that’s ok, I thought the same about your grandad. I just want you to know that your dad was once seventeen. I know what it feels like to think you know it all.

You have no idea what you want to do with yourself and when anyone asks, you have an outlandish answer. You can’t live without your mobile phone and sometimes you make up songs about picking your nose and watch dodgy porn. You’re young, you make mistakes, you miss taking 18 hour naps.

About now you’re starting to learn the value of money, how to drive and think you’ve found the love of your life “the one”. We’ll have the conversation about drinking some other time, probably after you find my photo albums from university and I have to awkwardly explain why I was standing naked on the toe path round the Lagan Embankment.

I know things for you aren’t always going to be perfect for you and I will do everything in my power to help you out etc. But once your twenty one or so, get the hell out of my house, stop eating my food, your mum isn’t your personal cook and laundress. Nor are we your chauffeur. The booze in the cupboard is your mothers and mine. Yes the two of us still love each other and will have sex in any room of OUR house anytime we damn well feel like it.

You want help buying your first house or flat? You got it! But get into trouble with the mortgage repayments further down the line? Then get a second job!

No I don’t dance like a loon nor do I embarrass you infront of your latest girl/boy friends. Yes your mum does look great in that new outfit she bought. What has how she looks like got to do with you anyway. Did you pay for it? Who died and made you Trinny and Susannah? And son? If your mate gets another hardon looking at your mother like that, next time he stays for dinner? I’ll ram a six inch rusty nail up his dick.

And to my beautiful daughter? I’ll ask anything I bloody well like of your boyfriends when you bring him round mwahahahaha! I wrote the book when it comes to excuses why I could’nt get a girl home in time.

Now go tidy your rooms. I’m sure I saw a pair of socks trying to walk out of there on their own. And that pizza under the bed is starting to look like Captain Birdseye.

No you can’t borrow £20.

Fat Spice

I was just reading in the news that Victoria Beckham was caught out on the town celebrating the up and coming Spice Girls Reunion with a double cheeseburger and fries.

Well done Vicks, you look really good on it. It’s high time you put on a couple of pounds sweety!

Definitely cause for celebration! She looks chuffed to bits to me. I think that stint in Ugly Betty has done her the world of good, don’t you?

She was heard whispering to David that tomorrow night is gonna be KFC night.

Me MyElf And I

I’ve been laid up in bed literally most of the week because I had an accident at work. I won’t bore you with the details but suffice to say, I was very, very bored. Felt very sorry for myself and was unable to waffle rubbish on here as I could hardly sit at my PC because of the pain. Anyway I’m starting to recover and can sit here for a while and share my drivel with you.

So let me now thank my girlfriend for cheering me up and putting a great big smile on my face. In a recent post I told you about my two left feet. But now thanks to my babe, I can bust some moves as good as the next fella. Check me out here. Cool huh? And to top it all off, she’s harboured a sexual fantasy of getting me into tights hahaha! She’s now succeeded. That little link took a little bit of time to load up for me but was well worth the wait.

Watch this space for yours truly on Strictly Come Dancing this time next year folks. I’m positive that I’ve found myself a whole new career here!

Len Goodman, Arlene Phillips, Bruno Tonioli and Craig Revel Horwood will be absolutely Wowwwed when they get a load of Yer-Man. It will be 10, 10, 10, 10 right across the board. Anton Du Beke and Brendan Cole had better watch out, cos there’s soon gonna be a new kid on the block.

So in the words of good old King Tut himself, “Keeeeep Dancin!”

Your A Celebrity?

I slept in yesterday morning, amazing isn’t it? That’s something I never do.

So I race into work an hour late and stay until just after 7pm cos I’m a good boy like that and have to look like I’m at least interested.

I get home and think. OK, something to eat, quick shower and have an early night. But sleep just didn’t come. The usual channel hopping ensues. Nothing much to be found. Check the listings and channel four has an autopsy at eleven. Oh goodie, Gunther in his hat again. I remember watching him butcher a cadaver a few years back. But I was kinda hoping I’d be well on my way to dreamland by then. I was wrong! I pondered with the idea of going downstairs, finding a DVD and watching that but I just couldn’t be bothered getting out of bed again. By this time, it’s nine o’clock. I ended up giving in to temptation and for the first time this season I watched “I’m a celebrity, get me out of here”

I think I recognised three people out of the bunch straight away. ie: ex footballer now pundit Rodney Marsh, Cery’s Matthews of Catatonia and Christoper Biggins. I vaguely recognised some fella from a boy band a while back, Jay something or other (I don’t even recall the bands name offhand) and one of those DIY (destroy it yourself) “experts” Anna (I’ve got a double barreled surname) Ryder Richardson.

As for the rest of the bunch, I have no idea whatsoever. But I told myself “well they must be super-duper famous, they’ve on prime time TV, right?”

I’d be the first to admit that I sort of like reality shows. Mainly because I enjoy watching people make total arses of themselves and it makes for great blog fodder but this show was just, well dire!

Boring as it was, I still didn’t sleep. So Gunther won the day as I wathced him dissect a female who seemed to have multiple injuries from a fall. He also showed us the importance of early diagnosis of a brain injury as he opened up a fresh cadaver and showed us how the brain sits snuggly inside the skull.

I was kinda surprised at one woman in the audience sitting with a tissue up to her nose and tears in her eyes. I couln’t help thinking to myself “what the hell did you go and watch a live autopsy for, if you couldn’t hack it?” Anyway, it was very informative and I think the point was to get across the importance of emergency medicine and how early detection of things like spinal injury etc could help people in accidents. And they used naked real life models to show how someone in a fall should be kept still etc just incase they had done more damage than expected. Something I already knew as I am a qualified first aider. I have to say also that the female model “Anna” was pretty hot looking with an amazing body.

So bascically I spent the night watching stiffs hahaha, and all on “I’m a celebrity”

If anyone can explain to me who the other so called celebs were. Then feel free to email me.

And a public apology to Zoe for not being in Belfast for the lights last night. I know you understand. (grovel, grovel)