We have been told by ‘experts’ that there is a high probability that we’ll have a blistering summer this year. I remain unconvinced. If it does get into ‘Phew-What a Scorcher’ territory though I reckon we’ll all be seeing a full scale insect assault this year.

On what do I base this theory, you ask, agog… well, we’ve had one hot summer day so far and on that day I was systematically invaded by small, frightening things.

Let’s get one thing straight – I am generally not worried by creeping crawling things. I’m the one at work usually called on to eject unwanted bees/wasps/spiders/beetles as I am happy to scoop offending critters up and chuck them out of windows – hey, they have a right to live too, yeah? (Tokes on huge joint, hugs nearest tree) BUT, I do have to draw the line somewhere. So when I was sitting, relaxing in a chair in my garden yesterday and I heard what sounded like the approach of a small helicopter I was somewhat unsettled.

This… THING… flew into view round the shed. It was a sparrow-sized wasp and it was heading straight for me. Before I knew what I was doing I was inside slamming every window and wondering if I was ever going to get the stains out of my underwear. It was a queen hornet and it was scoping out the shed for a good nest site. Not good. Y’see, hornets are not only bloody huge but they defend their nests with extreme agression. I’ve never even seen one before, but this one’s quite determined and it’s bloody put the shits up me, as Churchill once said. It’s been back a couple of times since. I managed to nervously spray fly killer through a crack in the shed door, it came straight out and went at me again causing me to flail, yell and dance like a twat. Bastard. I’ll scare it off yet, er, somehow. Anyone got a flamethrower I could borrow?

Also had a bloody huge spider run across the floor of the lounge. Again, they don’t usually bother me but this was like an eight-legged mouse and it ran like a muther straight towards me. I’m ashamed to say I squeaked and threw my legs into the air like a girly. What is it – do I smell nice to these things? Or are they launching some kind of vengeance attack for all the woodlice I ate as a child? The dog rescued me from the spider, then backed off as it had second thoughts and I deftly got a glass over it and hoiked it out the back door. (Actually I took it to the very end of the garden and threw it over the neighbour’s fence, just in case)

Mark my words. The advance party is here and the main invasion force is coming… Get your cupboards full of spray and big flyswats – you’ll be thanking me by September, but keep your guard up – what do you think the crane-flies have been doing for the past few years? Amassing, that’s what. The skies will be black, you’ll have them in your ears, up your nose, twitching their evil little legs at you as they bumble into your face…












This post sponsered by Raid(TM)



April was certainly a month of TITS for me.

I saw great TITS, blue TITS, coal TITS, long-tailed TITS and even some ladies TITS. On the telly. Once.


Sorry, I just wanted to shout TITS a bit. Springtime can do odd things to a man, you know?




For several years now I have had a small sebaceous cyst on my chest. he’s been a jolly little feller, just sitting there like a big old lumpy spot thing, itching from time to time, never any real bother… Until the weekend.

I had a bloody fun weekend actually. Straight from work to a mate in Southampton on Friday evening, much imbibing of naughty things and much talking of bollocks, as a Friday evening should be. Up on Saturday at 7.30 to take a couple of lurchers and a mad sheepdog for a long walk through huge woods blanketed with bluebells in the dappled light of a rising sun.. mmm…

We had a mighty breakfast of farm-fresh bacon, eggs, toast and beans (ok, they might not have been particularly farm-fresh, but if you KNOW of any fucking baked beans farms please feel free to correct me). Anyway, it was bloody ace. More imbibing, more talking-of-bollockness and then return to home, big bath and… FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!?

As I removed my shirt a mighty red swollen ball emerged, blinking, into the light. Instant panic, my benign little cyst has become INFECTED! Yesterday it was a friendly little conjoined twin, suddenly it’s a GARGANTUAN, SUPPURATING BUBO!!!

Naturally I decided not to go to the doctor. I have, somehow, managed to live for 44 years without anyone ever taking a knife to me and for some strange reason I’m quite keen to keep going for as long as I can without someone CUTTING me. Yes. Don’t want to be cut.

(Of course, I’ve probably just set myself up for some kind of awful yet hilariously ironic death now)

So. I applied germoline, dressed it and tried to deny its existence. The feeling of adhesive tape continually tugging at my chest hair was a bit of a reminder (yes, ladies, I am most hirsute about the chest and body. Sadly due to some genetic cock-up my body hair ALL looks like pubes. I don’t know who’s responsible for this, but if I ever get my hands on them…)

Today I removed the dressing. Now, there may be some readers of a nervous disposition so I will spare the the details. Suffice to say, it looks a lot better. Of course, for a large, swollen, skin-straining ball of pus to ‘look a lot better’ there’s really only one course of action for it to take. It’s got to lose the pus. Usually this happens by the skin-stretching ball of pus becoming a skin-splitting ball of pus. I’ll let your imaginations fill in the details. One point of interest though – it looked like melted toffee.

So, now it sits upon my chest, itching like a mofo and seeping gently. My little friend. I’ve called him Malcolm. We’re going to have such fun together… 

Hey, itching’s a good sign, right..?


A friend at work was babysitting his sister’s two kids – a girl of 3 and a boy of 5. They were playing with a couple of old Barbie and Ken dolls she’d dug out for them.

He looked up from watching TV to see Barbie bent over with Ken mounting her from the rear.

“Woah, kids – you can’t do that to Ken and Barbie!” He said. The boy looked up, a picture of innocence, and replied –

“It’s safe Uncle Pete, he’s doing her up the shitter…”


Where did it all go wrong…?


Tooth Hurtee

I am infected. A nasty little colony of bacteria has set up home in the gum under my lower right wisdom tooth. They’ve been having wild parties and generally whooping it up now for a few weeks. The upshot of this for me is that the tooth has been pushed upwards out of my jaw by about a millimeter – which feels like 6 inches – and every time I place any kind of pressure on it the sensation is akin to someone slamming a lump-hammer into my face.

As I am currently on medication (oh, just don’t ask) I cannot take paracetamol or ibuprofen so the nearest pain killers I could lay my hands on in lieu of a trip to the dentist were codeine tablets left over from a back problem last year (yes I am falling to bits). So I took a couple. Highly recommended. I never used to understand why people become addcited to such drugs, but the soothing blanket which descended over my world was really quite pleasant. I became such a space cadet that I couldn’t even make a cup of tea properly (left it brewing for about 20 minutes, then discovered I hadn’t even put a tea bag in in the first place). Basically I was wasted, slaughtered, stoned. But the pain went. I managed to phone work the next morning – once I realised I was still flying round the room – and garbled some nonsense at them (I have no idea what I said). Then took two more.

Yes. A very pleasant Tuesday. Managed to make my floaty way to the dentist who looked at the tooth, squeezed some pus out, thrust some antibiotics at me and charged me £25. When I produced 3 tenners the receptionist whinged about not having enough change in the till. I just stood there grinning, it felt like I was several miles away watching everything on a little blurry screen.

Don’t worry, I stopped the pills and went back to work, but I can understand the temptation, when life seems a bit too intrusive, angry, unfair etc to just retreat into this weird smoky self-indulgent world of hazy incomprehension and no worry or stress.

See y’all at rehab!



Like several million people in this country I am a car driver. Unlike several million people in this country I know how to drive a car. There’s a difference. And, as far as I’m concerned, about 75% of other drivers on the road should be in silly little cars which keep backfiring, forcing all the doors to fall off, and wearing silly wigs, big red noses and size 18 shoes. You BUNCH OF FUCKING CLOWNS!!!

Here’s a little lesson on what some of the funny knobs and dials are for on your dashboard : You know those funny little sticks which protrude from around the steering wheel? Guess what – they’re actually NOT for hanging things on! When you twist them they do some pretty amazing things. For example, one of them makes little lights flash on the front, back and sometimes even the side of your car! THESE ARE NOT DISCO EFFECT LIGHTS WHICH FLASH IN TIME TO THE MUSIC YOU ARE PLAYING – FAR TOO FUCKING LOUDLY BY THE WAY. They are there so you can tell other people where you are going! I know! What a revolutionary idea!

Now, I know your next question – Why should you want to let anyone else know where you’re going? That’s your business, right? WRONG. For example, if you see, let’s say for the sake of argument ME, waiting to cross a busy road the other side of a roundabout and you are indicating to carry on round the roundabout and then decide, without switching off your indicators, to actually leave the roundabout with out any warning at all you may well find that I am halfway across the road in front of you. This is NOT the point where you sound your horn and gesticulate wildly at me in an aggressive manner. No. Because that makes you like like an UTTER TWAT, an ARSEHOLE and a RETARD. Got it? TWAT!

Actually that’s happened before. The last time some massive tit tried to murder me was during the summer. This car draws up to a junction I am about to cross, not signalling, so I assume it’s going straight on. I step out and the wanker turns directly towards me and nearly has both my bastard feet off. As he passed I leaned into his open passenger side window and said “You know your indicators are broken mate?”. Ignorant fucker chased me down the street screaming incoherant swear words at me. Some people just can’t take a bit of gentle criticism.

I’m goint to open the Crapsack School of Motoring. If you don’t come up to scratch and show a bit of COMMON FUCKING SENSE I’ll have both your bastard HANDS off at the WRIST. Ha.



I try to walk to work as often as I can, partly for the excercise and partly because I need an infusion of music to start my day and my car is so ancient it only has a crap cassette player with one working speaker in it. So I load up the mp3 player and set forth on my 50 minute journey.

This is all well and good but I seem to wear out the headphone cable with alarming regularity. I decided to spend a bit extra and get some good quality headphones for a change. So I bought the Sennheiser cx 300s. I’ve never used headphones with ‘ear buds’ before, attracted by the phrase ‘Blocks Outside Noise’ I thought I’d give ’em a go. Jesus. Yes, they certainly do block outside noise. Unfortunately they enhance INSIDE noise. With the buds pushed firmly into my ears I can hear every step I take reverberate through my body like thunder, every swallow I take makes a disgusting crackly gulping noise. Worse still, and I don’t think I’m some kind of freak of nature, but when I do swallow the pressure created between my throat and ears (via the eustachian tubes for all you human biology ignoramouses out there) sucks the buds deeper into my head. It’s disgusting, uncomfortable, distracting and – frankly – gross.

So I have to try and balance them just inside my ears but not quite pushed in – so that it sounds like I’m listening to music via two tin cans on a bit of string.

Why is modern life so utterly shite sometimes? I try and spend a little extra to improve my leisure and pleasure time and end up worse off than if I’d spent £3.99 on cheap ‘phones which break after 2 weeks.

Maybe I am a freak of nature after all. I suppose that would explain my five nipples.