Tag: Scotland

Lingerie, Whiskey and Burning Flags

Two Chinese Pandas are being loaned to Edinburgh Zoo. The thinking is that they’ll be so cold they’ll have to fuck continuously to keep from freezing to death.

Hey, am I wearing lipstick? When I’m getting fucked I want to make sure my face looks pretty.

– George Jung, Blow

I put the news in my brain today. It didn’t help my depression. Not one bit.

I hear the cuts with which we are being punished for the avarice and incompetence of our betters is going to plunge this country into a Dickensian level of class divide and destitution; the eurozone is breaking apart, another mistake that will have us all over the sodomy table before the decade is up.

Stories of increasing numbers of honour killings and the grooming of children are a proud racist’s wet dream – proof positive in their bloodshot eyes that if they were right about Europe then how about all these dirty immigrants taking British jobs. All the while the justice system is too PC to tackle problems by race, leaving the idiots among us to judge entire swaths of their communities by the diabolical actions of a few. Continue reading “Lingerie, Whiskey and Burning Flags” →

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Our Rock is an Alcoholic and We Are Happy-Hour. Part Two

Empty bottles and cans; a big bag of papers and a broken piece of redundant electronics – a typical week’s worth for an unmarried male in his thirties. Teenagers produce twice this.

I’ve spent the majority of my adult life living abroad, and for the most part I found it more bearable than not doing so; but if history has taught us anything it is that all foreigners are little more than vile savages before a fear of the Christian Lord and a good command of the Queen’s is raped into them.

One thing that some of them do seem a hell of a lot better than us at though is recycling; from India’s slums to the supermarkets of Denmark, it is understood that there is money in ‘waste’, be it sorting through what others throw away or collecting the deposit on all the dog-end filled empty bottles littering your apartment after a party. Continue reading “Our Rock is an Alcoholic and We Are Happy-Hour. Part Two” →

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Living Tasted Better Than Healthy Felt

I’m pretty sure the people I live with think I’m a bit of a freak. Notwithstanding my forgotten but undoubtedly questionable conduct when drunk, I have shown to have in my possession an amount of kitchen equipment that would seem to rival all but the most thorough of small rural restaurants; and yet I haven’t cooked once.

I’ve been here nine days or so yet I haven’t cooked once. There’s a reason why – a mighty, engorged, sweating mass ten inches above where I would want adjectives like that used. Yep, I’m a fat bastard. A condition I wouldn’t say has exactly crept up on me but nor have I attempted any form of escape. I’m one of those guys where the fat sits hard on the belly and the arse, if I was a dead president’s head in a jar, 1000 years from now, I reckon I’d get on alright with the ladies. Nervous twitch n’all. Continue reading “Living Tasted Better Than Healthy Felt” →

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Hello World…

Well… here I am.

I’ve been in Middlesbrough three days now, moved here after a year in Glasgow to attend university. I haven’t lived in England for more than six years and although the mortal terror I feel almost constantly is more a product of my own personality disorders than an indictment on the town it is still very strange being back among my own kind. Continue reading “Hello World…” →

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