It's Really, Really Hard

It really is very hard. I'm not sure how people cope with it at all.

In fact, it becomes so hard that you want to physically explode - or make the person/people you are with explode in a blinding light.

One can try to be a gentle person, but the desire to fuck someone's brains out of their tiny little skull is so, so... tempting.

(Oh, Sex freaks - you might as well fuck off and masturbate somewhere else - no pictures here and, I was talking about idiots you have to deal with in a day to day life, not some menagerie-a-twat with monkeys etc).

*So, now that the 'Google-Freaksters' have pissed off on Kleenex.com - I will continue*

When I can be arsed, I work for a company so huge, we have a building with windows - well, a few of them (some that are locked to stop people committing suicide).

Every day, some people do some stuff and things happen - in a groovy 'happening' way.

Generally, I don't give a toss until they fuck up the computers - then I have to put my cigarette out in someone else's coffee and do something. This is where it gets really hard.

The problem is that the nice people make innocent mistakes. This is because they have never been trained but are the first to get blamed by the posh wankers who run the show. Meanwhile, the chinless wonders talking into their 'Shit-Berries' in airports across the world achieve nothing.

Well, in Goth World it is the same as 'techie-world'.

Check why your 'Shit-Berry' is deleting your CV/Resume. Try to blame some poor secretary for your fuck-ups and your hard drive is wasted. Oh dear, did I...

BWAHAHAHAHA

If, as one of the 'small' people, you made a mistake - just tell the truth and we in Goth World will fix it, even if it takes hours (and enact retribution on the fucker who blamed you, as a 'comp-sprt')

As for sex - it's over-rated . . . . . with me ;-)

Usually, too tired.....

*snores**************

You Silly Little Man

OK, in retrospect, this was probably not the best phrase to use in an argument but, as I was drifting off with the fairies due to boredom it just leapt out of my mouth, preceded by "Oh do shut up.."

I think Grandma Goth would be proud that I didn't call him a stupid cunt, which was what I thought, and still think.

I know that this phrase will never rank as the best insult I have ever given anyone ever, but it certainly was one of the most unexpected.

How do I know this? Because when liquids shoot out of peoples noses, it is usually a fair indication you have caught them somewhat unprepared. The fact that it created a rant of suitable idiocy merely reinforced my point.

It's a shame really as I was having a particularly lucid daydream where I was crucifying the little twat using pencils. But, you can't always get what you want.

This is why I am not a politician and I am fairly positive that I am not on the Christmas list for 'mini-Hitler' now - like I should care.

Whats In a Name?

Introducing oneself is always an interesting opening to any conversation - some might even say it was integral. Personally, I don't really give a shit - if people want to know who I am they can ask - I have no intention of wandering around like a lemming looking for a cliff saying "Eh oh, My name is..."

There are two things that triggered this thought process, and thus caused me to have a holiday from my holiday tales.

Firstly, some 'really interesting' person from somewhere I suppose, was being guided by the Vice President of Europe around our building this week. As I strode past on my way out for a cigarette, I was introduced as:-

"And this is....er Goth, and he's erm, scary".

"Yeah, right" I said and continued walking.

I've been introduced as many things before, but I don't recall being called 'scary' before - but I suppose the fact that the VP even knows who I am should mean something?

Secondly, there was an article about people with stupid names. Obviously, there are a lot of fuckwit parents on the planet who like to give their children stupid names to ensure they get the shit kicked out of them at school.

You have the downright nutty ones like Frank Zappa (kids named Dweezil and Moon Unit), the 'off my chopski' ones like Paula Yates (Peach and Fifi Trixabelle) and the just plain stupid like Dead-Hotel-Bloke Hilton (why call her Paris, when Bangkok is far more apt?).

Then you have people with surnames which are legitimate but the choice of first name is either callous or fucking idiotic.

So, my new competition is for the most idiotic combination of names (that can be found on Google) with first prize being a crucifixtion for the parents of my choosing.

And none of that choosing 'porno names' bullshit like Ben Dover, Cupid Stunt or Clit Eastwood.

Holiday Part 2 - A Celtic Connection

The thing about spending time with my grandmother was that she was also from a Celtic background. She loved nature and spreading her knowledge of it, which my little brother and I lapped up.

Take for example the 'Story of Tiny'.

Tiny was a small lamb who was born prematurely and was destined to die. My grandfather announced, rather gruffly that it was a case of natural selection and he had to concentrate on the lambs that would survive.

"Oh fiddlesticks" announced my grandmother and scooped the helpless lamb up in her frock.

My brother and I followed as she marched back to the cottage and promptly put the lamb in the Aga oven. We burst into tears and declared that we didn't want to eat the lamb - we didn't even like lamb.

"Shush" she said soothingly "Help me prepare the milk"

After a few minutes, she took the miniscule lamb out of the oven, now suitably warm, wrapped it in a blanket and started to feed it with a baby bottle filled with warm milk. After a short while, it fell asleep, as did we on the floor of the scullery.

The next morning, we were allowed to feed the lamb, now called Tiny and he became like a pet sheep. If he did poo in the house, I'm sure grandma cleaned it up and claimed he was house-trained to my grandfather.

Many years later, I was to do exactly the same thing with a small duckling who I called Wayne. Why did I call him Wayne? I have completely no idea but I do know that the love of nature passed onto me, in a Celtic way, stayed with me and remains forever.

Holidays As They Should Be

Holidays, or vacations as the 'other people' like to call them, are not what they used to be.

When I grew up, we were so poor we couldn't have holidays as people class them now. My younger brother and I were fortunate enough to survive a 7-hour journey to spend a week with our grandparents. It wasn't that they lived thousands of miles away, transport was just so shit then, it took 3 hours to travel 100 miles.

We were so agitated on the journey that we spent the entire time repeating "Are we there yet?" until we fell asleep. Not because we were bored but because we were anxious to be there. However, when we finally arrived - we were so excited we couldn't sleep.

After our parents had dumped us there and gone somewhere else to practice making babies or something, we would spend days hunting for other stuff we had never seen.

Grandpa Goth taught us how to make bows and arrows from trees with penknives. He taught us how to hunt things, and afterwards Grandma Goth taught us how to fix the poor animals we had inadvertedly speared but not killed.

It was a holiday because we came back better people than when we went and with a different view on life. We learned things we could never hope to attain where we lived for the other 50 weeks of the year.

If it rained, we got wet. We ate what was given to us and didn't ask for a free gift. We didn't need money as there was nothing we needed to buy.

And, before some smart-arse comments, yes I know how many weeks are in a year - but I haven't explained what occurred during week 2 of the holiday.......

Awards Ceremony

I don't normally accept awards as I am far too busy being Gothic to give a fuck about them. However, as Mr Farty, who is Scottish but likeable none the less, nominated me for the awardy thingy, I thought I would accept.

Rather unsurprisingly, I did not come first - we Goths have some principles we like to uphold.

Although, I usually prefer to come in position 69, I think number 3 was ok on the list. Number 1 was taken by a set of speakers, with an admirable tone. Number 2 was taken by my Prince Of Sarcasm and I followed, pushing the chair.

Apparently, there were another 2 bloggers after us but, as they were 'runners-up' - the Prince (formerly known as squiggle) told me to ignore them.

Here is a picture of me wheeling Prince to pick up his award - I'm the pushy bastard at the back.



Part of this 'Oscar, who lives in a trash can' thing is to nominate 5 other blogs who deserve such an award. I really had to think about this one as I have to say why I read their blogs. I could bullshit and give you some inane crap like a true award speech but, let's be honest... no, really, let's be honest...

1) Honey - Because she scares the shit out of me with her honesty and I know her in real life. She is one of the most beautiful people to have graced the planet and yes, I did think seriously about kicking the living shit out of her erstwhile partner.

2) Lady Daphne - My Matron of the nursing profession. She brought me Jelly Babies on the day after I scraped my arm. For that alone, she deserves an award but, her blog is inventive and invective at the same time.

3) Joilet Jake - for taking over my position of talking more bollocks in one post than any bufoon can. I also want to ensure that his visitor numbers increase so that he posts more often and thus stops listening to shit music, or eating cheese sandwiches in hotels when he could have curry.

4) Big Titticus - aka (.)(.) - because I want her as my bedtime nurse. I'm not sure I would survive a night but, what a way to go. She might be as mad as a bag of squirrels but at least she's honest.

5) My Suicidal American Buddy - I admire him when he writes whilst pissed as a cunt - but I wouldn't want to be within 100 miles. Also, I'd like to teach him how to drink properly - i.e. without the 'blowing chunks' thing. Drinking properly is an acquired art that requires practice.

This completes my list - if you're not on it - tough shit - you're missing nothing. If you're on it, you can adhere to the rules, posted on Mr Farty's nomination or not. Really, I don't give a shit - but they call that Gothipation or something.....

Oh, nearly forgot, I have to include a link to the award site - well, here it is.... find it if you can (easy if you look at the code)

Not Bored Really

So, having returned to work, I found myself ploughing through a zillion e-mails. Whilst my original plan to 'select all' and then delete the bastards, it would be typical that I missed an important one like:-

Dear Goth, congratulations you have won new bionic arms or
Dear Goth, my name is Claudia Schiffer and I would like to sit on your face....

Obviously, I received neither, but as I was scrolling through them, my mind started to wander. I wondered what I would call my band if I was a hedgehog. A few that I came up with were:-

Hedgehog Death Cult
Deep Hedgehog
My Chemical Hedgehog
Hedgehogs Of Mercy
Red Hot Chilli Hedgehogs

Then I went for a cigarette and lost my train of thought. When I sat back down at my computer, one of those annoying American bossy muppets turned up and I inadvertedly blurted out -

"Fuck off pal, we don't have any oil here so go home".

He didn't take my subtle hint so I just ignored him. It was then I remembered something Mr Farty had mentioned in a comment, so I went to look at what he was talking about which was bound to be more interesting.

Well, bugger me backwards with a pitchfork. He has nominated me for some awardy thingy. Normally, I don't give a flying fuck about these sort of things but as it is The Fartmaster himself, I figured I'd do him the courtesy of acknowledging it. More about this tomorrow though......

Oh Shit - It Broke

I used to say that a lot when I was a baby Goth - well, mainly when I had caused some form of destruction to my toys, my brothers toys or later, any mechanical device belonging to my parents.

I think maybe, it's an automatic thing to say when you accidentally destroy something.

Now, when my arm when through the square window, I didn't mention anything at the time - it was an accident and shit happens. But, it happened and I have moaned about the scratch on my arm a little too often. It really doesn't matter - nothing fell off or anything.

Anyway, today was the day when the bandages came off and I could wash my hair again. Once again, I could smell like I had been dunked in a vat of peach wine.

Well, hoozah and hoorah - I could finally say goodbye to the lovely Dr Frankenstein and her Ether washes. She gently removed the final strips with a violent tug and in theory I could return to abnormal life.

"What's wrong with your other hand?" she asked, far too suspiciously for my liking.
"Nothing" I replied "It was just feeling a little lonely, and lumpy from when I sat on it"
"When did you sit on it?" she asked
"Erm.... roughly about the time I fainted, give or take a little gravitational effect and tried to break my fall" I replied honestly

*the conversation speeded up at this point*

"So, why didn't you show me before?"
"Because you were busy dealing with the one that hurt more"
"X-ray now !" she demanded and off I skulked to see Dr Bones and his magical mystery machine

*20 minutes later*

"You do know this is a huge operation now?" she spat, like a woman I had lied to
"It's not" I said, trying to think how little it hurt
"Look at the fucking X-ray - it's completely broken - you're going to be off work for 6 months with this"
"Your English is improving" I said, trying to assess my escape routes
"Anyway, I'm not - cos I'm not getting it fixed" I winced and wandered out with as much dignity as I could muster.

Outside, I lit a cigarette gingerely and it was my turn now to say - oh shit, it broke.....

Vacation 2 - Security

So, having braved the ignomy of the check-in from hell, it is now time to wobble off in the direction of passport control and then security.

Passport control is simplistically a queue for idiots. 'Grockles' - or holidaymakers as they are sometimes known, join the biggest queue. I'm not sure if they think there's some free stuff and therefore, that's why there is a queue, but if they do, all they can expect is a 'long wait'.

Security is quite another kettle of fish. To start with, Mr and Mrs Ugly don't understand the concept of a metal detector. It would probably be better named 'Mental Detector'.

Please remove all metallic objects before attempting to pass through the detector - says the message, in a myriad of languages.

"I can't take this off" says Mr Tattoo, pointing at his watch, whilst looking like a piece of Blu-tac that's fallen into a slot machine.

Rather unsuprisingly, the alarms go off and so piece by piece, he walks backwards and forwards removing one item at a time until he finally passes the metal detector - to be strip searched by a security guard looking to see if he has tried to smuggle one brain cell through.

Meanwhile, the other half of this ludicrous 'double-act' is standing there, like a dumbstruck baboon, marvelling at his stupidity whilst the smaller contingent of the Ape-Tribe from hell are busy shoving pencils up each others noses.

Her smug grin soon disappears when she realises that she too has to take off the 'Terrys All Gold' she bought at the duty-free.

Some time later, it's my turn to pass through and the guards are perturbed by the fact that I have everything metallic in my jacket pocket, my laptop is out and ready for inspection.

"Can you come with me please Sir" asks Hitler Junior.
I comply and then he wants to know why I am wriggling as he attempts to search me.
"Stop fucking tickling me then" I observe.

Many years ago, I took the mini-Goths on holiday which was their first time dealing with airport rules. As I was used to travelling regularly, I had a routine which, my mini-Goths observed and followed.

Everything went onto the conveyor belt to go through the X-ray machine. Dilligently, the minature ones copied what I did and finally, put their bags of 'Pick and Mix' sweets on the belt.

"It's ok son" said the security guard "you can keep hold of this bag"

"Thanks" replied mini-Goth, sweetly "It's ok you know, there's no drugs in this one!"

Vacation Time

Yes, it's that time of the year when 'normal people' go on vacation. At times like this, I am so glad I'm a Goth and not a 'normal person'. Granted the weather here is pretty shit at the moment, but it keeps the idiots off the streets.

I've never really felt the need to go on a NP (normal person) holiday. What the muppets don't seem to understand is that changing the location does not change the person. Wherever, you go on holiday, you always have to take yourself.

So, millions of moronic idiots will take over the airports attempting to prove that their little tribe of bastards can be noisier than those next to them. Suitcases that have been packed to explosive capacity with pointless shit, will squash small children at the airports. Grumpy fathers in day-glo shorts will drink themselves silly whilst their partners will attempt to save money by spending more of it on useless shite from the duty-free shop.

Meanwhile, the people who travel on a regular basis will at last realise what business lounges were invented for. Granted the free drinks and food are nice, but the ability to distance yourself from Mr and Mrs Tattoo and their lard-arse sprogs is pure heaven.

All this, and I have only described the airport so far - tomorrow, will be the flight from hell.

I would apologise to the family from hell, but their reading capabilities are as limited as their capacity to speak any language - even the only one they are supposed to know.

So what are your airport nightmares in this, the silliest of travel season???

Annoying Cow-Workers

Everybody has them - those annoying little twats that can make your working day a misery. Just because they are useless at their job / relationships / general ability to be a nice person doesn't mean they should bring their little cloud of misery over everyone else.

I have discovered that since my enforced abscence, some twit who was always complaining that I did nothing has had to take on some of my responsibilities. Now said twit is fucking whingeing that it is an impossible amount of work to do.

Ha - laughed like a fucking hyena I did. Of course it looks like nothing when I do it you myopic retard - that's because I'm very good at what I do and just make it look easy.

So, I figured I would compile a list of most annoying things cow-workers have done or said to you. Fire away, I'm listening.......

In the meantime, a joke.

A chimp and a hyena are having a chat in the jungle. The hyena is complaining that every single day, at the same time, a lion ambushes him and kicks the crap out of him.

"I can help" says the chimp "I'm a black belt in karate. Today, I'll come with you and when the lion arrives I'll kick his ass".

The hyena is very grateful and so together they walk down the jungle path.

The lion jumps out, starts pummeling the hyena and the chimp just runs up the nearest tree.

When the lion has left, the chimp comes back down the tree and walks over to the bloodied hyena.

"I thought you said you were going to help" exclaims the battered hyena.

"I was" replies the chimp "But you were laughing so much I thought you were winning".

*taps finger whilst waiting for annoying cow-worker quotes / actions*

Through The Square Window

I would imagine, only readers from the yUK and of a certain age will recall the TV programme where that phrase came from. It was a kids show called Play School which was popular with very young children and college students who were drunk and/or copletely off their chops on drugs.

At one point in the show, they would announce that they were going through a window - a bit like a drunken englishman in a pub in Glasgow.

However, as the weather is typically Belgian (i.e. shit, again) today, there are no fat chicks getting arrested, no gorgeous women in skimpy clothes to look at - just a lot of water falling from the sky.

TV is not much better. There's a tennis match where some Amazonian woman is playing against a gorilla in a dress, some cycling doofer where a load of puffs in silly shorts skoot around France trying not to fall off - and that's about it really.

Which brings me back to childrens TV which used to be really good. I remember quite clearly some of the programmes. Some of my favourites included;-

The Magic Roundabout - where a bunch of strange puppets did something or other. I remember Dylan, the permanently 'high' rabbit who used to wander round saying "Groovy" a lot and a hyperactive puppet called Zebedee but I suppose you would get slightly active if someone shoved a giant spring up your arse.

Mary, Mungo and Midge - a bizarre tale of a six year old girl who lived in a high rise block with a talking dog and a equally vociferous mouse. All I can recall is that the mouse had to stand on the dogs nose to press the button for the lift.

Pipkins - a variety of strange animals including Hartley Hare, Octavia the Ostrich and a bizarre monkey called Tossoff the Monkey - I think Michael Jackson saw that one.

It all went downhill when the yUK started importingSesame Street. I mean how are a mouse and dog supposed to compete with a highly strung 8 foot tall yellow bird, a grumpy monster who lives in a trash can or a Cookie Monster? That's even before you got around to the class act that is Bert & Ernie or the Count (who loves to count).

Anyway, what was your favourite kids TV programme?

Oh, and there's a vote on the right. Pick your favourite character from Sesame Street and I will write a post in a Gothic version of the winning selection.

The Goth And The Pea Or Something

Since my somewhat idiotic accident, I have been cursed with only being able to sleep in one position (and no, it's not upside down in a fucking coffin).

Due to my delicate nature, I can only rest whilst lying on my side with my injured Gothic limb, slightly extended. I would imagine, it makes me look like half of a Village Person doing a semaphore version of (YM-ISTS - Y must I sing this shit).

Now I'm not sure if it's the painkillers that are ceasing to work but, for the last 3 days I can only manage 3 hour spurts. That might be impressive if I was a porn star but I'm not and, I was talking about sleep anyway.

For whatever bizarre reason (or punishment) it is my supposed good side that's causing the issue. After a few hours, it starts to feel like I am sleeping on a bed of nails. I have to get up and watch shit TV for an hour or so before I can lie down again.

I recall some fairy tale where they checked the authenticity of a princess by placing a pea under a mattress. Well Mr Birds Eye - guess fucking what? I don't want to be a bloody princess so stop pissing about with your peas or whatever frozen wares it is you are invading my nightmares with.

Being positive, which isn't always that easy for a Goth - shit TV in Belgique really does cater for the mentally retarded. They have this 'programme/advert/pervert fest' which features naked women doing a variety of bizarre things along with numbers you can call to speak to them.

As per the yUK (sic), they have a really small message (in English) at the end explaining how much per minute this wank-fest will cost. However, what they also have, in even smaller letters after that, is another message (in French) proclaiming - 'These characters are all fictitious and you cannot meet them in person'.

Realistically, I don't think that Johnny Kleenex - international wanker, can actually read anyway.

As for me - I'm too busy wondering about who 'pea'd' the bed to care about what Lolita is doing with that banana again.

Educating Reet Duh

Firstly, let me point out that 'reet' is a very Northern UK way of prouncing the word right - as in the phrase 'Yee a reet love?'. I'm not terribly au fait with particular northern dialects although I do understand most of them.

Anyway, as I am stuck in my little crystal cage at the moment, I have to find some entertainment via the windows of the apartment. Tomorrow, this will change as Lena's recommendation, Carnivale has arrived.

Today though, I was tempted to educate the stupid 'women' I observed via the window.

Thus, my suggestions for 'the brain the size of a peanut gang':-

• Point 1 - trying to run away from the police when you are fat is not a clever idea. When was the last time you saw a sofa with legs win an Olympic medal?
• Point 2 - attempting to throw drugs into a hedge doesn't work if you leave them in the packet, moron
• Point 3 - concealing an eight inch screwdriver in your bra does not really transmit a feeling of an innocent bystander looking for a furniture shop
• Point 4 - whilst you may be able to dismantle a wardrobe with your screwdriver, you could have just sat on the bastard thing
• Point 4a - the police have guns which are far more effective at stopping idiotic elephants

Unsurprisingly, 'lard-arse' and her equally inept accomplice were arrested and, once the police were able to find a big enough vehicle, carted off to jail (probably a very big one).

Looking on the bright side, at least I had some entertainment.

Incidentally, before any pompous twat starts criticising, I have nothing against fat people. I just don't like fucking idiots - whatever their size.....