The Rant and Rave Page
This my Rant & Rave Page. I decided to bin the ' About Us ' page 'cos no-one gives a shite. Anyway, all you need to know ' ABOUT US ' is on the Home Page. I'm bored with sites that are bland. We need something a with a bit of an edge.
So, this where I will give vent to my frustrations, spew my venom and give my unsolicited opinion on whatever takes my fancy. I hope that you will be entertained, incensed, amused, insulted. Driven to great joy or rage. Delighted at finding a kindred spirit or driven to despair in the realization that dinosaurs are NOT extinct.
There are some rules. No racism or porn. No attacks on private individuals. No attacks on businesses. That leaves us plenty to rave about : Politicians, religion, bikes, morons who drive at 50 mph in the overtaking lane on a motorway, morons who drive while speaking on mobile phones, mobile phones, bikers, cagers, Blakestown Motorcycle Tyres, more bikers, dogs, dog owners, neighbours ( not the Australian kind - hold on.. yes, those as well ), George Bush, Bertie Ahern, women, men... God, the list is endless. I'm really looking forward to this.
You, Dear Reader, will have the right to reply. At present, you will have to mail me your opinion on my opinion and, of course, this being my ball, I will decide whether to let you play or not. Also, I have total editorial control. If I decide to let you play, YOUR opinion will be posted on the site.
And don't expect any logic or coherence here - that's why it's called a rant & rave page !!!!!!!!
I'll probably lose loads of customers as a result of this page but, sure, there's always bankruptcy.
Now, finally, a WARNING : The content on this page WILL contain strong language, so anyone under 18 or of a nervous disposition or who are easily offended ... Fuck Off Now.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
What if your tyres were made of this ?
Artwork copyright by Brom. Used with permissions
OK, AS PROMISED, HEEEERE'S CHARLEY
Charley's Chat July 2007 (Bike SA)
I hate it when Winter comes along every year because if you ride a boney then for sure you’re gonna get a scratchy throat and the sniffles and then even if you’re a tough biker like one of us okes in Da Cuzzins, you’ll end up going on all these anti-biotic mutis and stuff.
Now the main snag with anti-biotics is that unless you know exactly what you’re doing then you can’t actually go dopping when you’re on the medicine.
Usually I make it all the way into July before I get sick, but this year one arvie I woke up at my desk at work with my throat on fire. This was not what I wanted to have happen because there was this lekker jol coming up where I was gonna have to squeeze in a lot of dopping without having to worry about antibiotics and stuff.
Anyway, so off I go to check the doctor and he puts me on these new stronger things that klap the bugs in an oke’s body moer of a fast and before I even get a chance to ask the doc he tunes me that there’s no way that I can dop for the next five days.
As I get home I immediately take out the calendar to check out how I’m gonna be able to go to the jol and still take my medicine. After checking out the dates and the hours out moer of a carefully I finally worked out that if I started taking the anti-biotics immediately then the five days of medicine taking would end exactly as the party started at two o’ clock on the Saturday arvie, but I was gonna be cutting it moer of a fine…
Now this party I had to get to was Robert Prince’s Big Birthday Jol down in Klerksdorp. Robert is an old buddy of mine and his mal-gat boet Richard that I used to race with and who is an even bigger buddy of mine had come out all the way from Australia to be with us. So there was no ways that I was not gonna dop at the jol.
After hanging the calendar up again I got together with the other okes from Da Cuzzins later that arvie for our usual evening night-cap so to speak and for a change sat and sipped coke like a responsible person while the other okes all dopped away and made fun of me. Howie even went and spitefully bought a free round of dops for everybody just so that I could miss out.
Now you other proper biker okes out there might not know this, but a lot of strange things are supposed to happen to an oke if he doesn’t dop. For instance, one oke once tuned me that when you wake up in the mornings and you didn’t dop the night before then you don’t have to brush your teeth so hard to get that normal ugly taste out of your mouth.
A chick who belongs to the CMA which is also called the Christian Motorcycle Association once tuned me while she was on one of their recruitment drives that without alcohol in your system an oke can think more clearly all the time and live a deeper and more meaningful life. I didn’t know what she was going on about, but she was so lekker that I couldn’t take my eyes of her and just kept smiling and asked her if she wanted to join Da Cuzzins.
A school lightie once also tuned me that he was able to finish Sudoku puzzles right to the end and get all the numbers right if he never dopped the night before. Of course I never trusted any of these okes’ stories but now that I was not gonna be dopping for a whole five days I was gonna check if any of the stories were actually true.
One thing I found out really early about not dopping was that five days can drag on forever, but finally Saturday arrived and I set off for Klerksdorp and Robert’s Jol knowing that at two o’ clock that arvie I would start dopping again…
Hey, what a lekker town Klerksdorp is. At midday when I pulled into the town the okes were already partying and going mal. Robert’s Party was being held in a place called the Boogie Bar and when I walked into the joint it was already full. When I finally found Robert he tuned me that lots of okes were still coming.
I’m still talking to Robert when suddenly this one oke grabs my hand and shakes it and puts a rum and coke in it and tunes me that his name is Dan Bonneville and that I’m welcome in his town and then he tunes me that there’s this joke which I’d never heard before.
So I’m listening to the story and get ready for the punch line but although all the other okes round me schemed it was moer of a funny I didn’t understand the joke at all.
Then Dan went over to some other okes and he tuned them the same joke and they rolled around on the ground laughing, but even after hearing the joke for the second time I still didn’t get it. That’s when I started to get moer of a worried…
For five days straight now I had not had a dop to drink and everybody had tuned me how much cleverer I was gonna be if I stayed off alcohol, but even after I heard the joke for the third time I still didn’t see why it was so funny. And I swear it must of been moer of a funny because the more Dan told it the more the okes killed themselves laughing. A chill went through me. Perhaps all these years of dopping had finally rotted my brain…
I looked down at the rum and coke in my hands that Dan had given me and then at my watch. It was two o’ clock and my five days of no dopping were finally over. If my brain was already fried then I might as well finish the job I decided…
I slukked back the dop and felt the alcohol hit my tummy. Over in the one corner Dan was tuning his joke again to some new okes and this time when I heard the first part of the joke it started to make sense.
At the bar I ordered a double and waited for Dan to tell the joke again. I didn’t have to wait long. This time the punch line made complete sense.
Hey these okes from the CMA who make up lies and stories to mislead us bikers must really stop their nonsense… Charley
used with kind permission of charley coooper
Go to Charley Cooper now
RANT & RAVE NO. 1
You've all come across them. The fucking dipsticks who thinks that the outside lane on the dualler or motorway is for driving in at 80 KPH ( see, I'm gone metric ). I can even understand this if the inside lane is blocked ( NO, I CAN'T ) but, fucking hell, why do it when the it's clear ? Just get out of my fucking way, cretin !!!!!!!!!!Or same thing but driving at 1 Km below the speed limit.
What is it ? Simple ignorance of the rules ? Plain stupidity ? Or just being a fucking bollocks - I'M not breaking the speed limit, so neither will you. ( Jasus, would'nt it be great if these fuckers were so law-abiding in everything else, like using their bleeding indicators, or using their mobile phones WHEN FUCKING STATIONARY ). Look, thicko, if I want to break the speed limit, I'll fucking break it and take my chances with the boys in blue. I don't need a vigilante ( who obviously does'nt know the Road Rules anyway ), to stop me. And worse again, if YOU are traveling well below the speed limit and preventing EVERYBODY from overtaking and making progress. Thick fucks !!!
And here's another one - you're on the motorway in the outside lane, ( M50 springs to mind ), both lanes chock-a-block, outside lane making nice progress at around the speed limit, all the grannies, geriatrics, LEARNERS, trucks, bicycles moving at 80 kph in the inside lane when, all of a sudden, all the vehicles in front of you light up like fucking Christmas trees. What's happening ? I'll tell you what's happening. Some jerk-off in a fucking piece of shit of a truck decides that he wants to overtake the other piece of shit in front. The only problem is that HIS piece of shit can't get past 55 mph, so he forces everyone in the outside lane to reduce speed in a hurry. ( By the way, you plank, the speed limit for trucks on motorways is 55 mph and you're not supposed to be in the outside lane anyway - Look, I'm trying to go metric but fuck it ). Of course, the thick bollix then finds that he can't pull back in 'cos all the grannies, geriatrics, etc., are traveling bumper to bumper, he can't get the poxy truck past 55 mph and we now have two lanes of traffic traveling at 55 mph. What a bunch of fucking twats !!!
And don't bother to mail me telling me I should'nt be breaking the speed limit and that speed kills, 'cos that's a load of bollox. What is killing people is the total lack of driving skills, pure stupidity and ignorance, licences handed out willy-nilly ( like as if answering a few multiple choice questions solves the problem ), not knowing our driving skill and physical limits, and, basically, general fucking mayhem.
If we, in this great little country of ours, made sure that our driving skills were up to speed ( no pun intended ), maybe, just maybe, we could bate along at a reasonable speed and not kill ourselves.
Early on in the year, I traveled approx 160 miles of UK motorway. Everyone broke the speed limit - I know, they all passed me - and everyone used the lanes as they should be. Progress was only fucking rapid. I saw a few traffic police but not one vehicle pulled for speeding ( then maybe they got caught on camera - if so, not many drivers appeared to give a shite ). Of course, most motorways in the UK are actually motorways, like they have three, yes, three, lanes. What we have here are glorified dual carriageways. And before you ask, yes, I kept within the official speed limits and the reason : I was'nt familiar with route, the weather was not the best and that's called using your head. Or maybe even a bit of skill.
Well,that's the first rant and rave out of the way. Love it or hate it, that's up to you. Just keep buying tyres and shit from me, OK?
RANT & RAVE NO. 2
You're sitting in the pub, sipping your cocktail of 7-Up, Sprite and Diet Pepsi ( being a responsible rider ) with your mates and in comes HIM. We all know a HIM. HIM is the one who immediately sits beside you ( irrespective whether the wanker was invited or not ) and launches straight into the subject of 'ME NEW BIKE AND WOT I DUN TO IT'. Don't matter that you and your mates are having an absolutely riveting conversation about the impact of Bertie Ahern's dithering on the Irish economy or that no-one is actually interested in :
- What Him did to his poxy bike ( we've heard it all before ).
- Him
So, Him starts.
'Well, I got the bike yesterday and I've put on a full Agraphophic system, had a stage 21 dyno done to it, got rid of the wheels and replaced with ultra light magnesium titanium thingies, full Brembos, front, rear and middle, top of the range Ohlins and a full set of Pirelli Diablo Corsa Pro Street Tweedle Dum Tweedle Dee Radical Extreme Sport / Track Race tyres. I'm getting the full monty Rizla paint job done tomorrow and then I'll be ready to race.1
Oh yeh, the bike is putting out 210 bhp at rear wheel. I should be able to get another 50 or 60 when I fit the fuel injection and Power Commander systems at the weekend. It's all only costing me €15,346.53 including the VAT. And the lads are really decent ‘cos they're only charging me €5000 labour. It was supposed to €4, 900 but they said it was just as handy to round it up. What you think, lads ?';
Stoney stares all round. Lads are thinking alright .
' I'll fucking kill him. '
' Where's the Prosac ?';
' How come this cunt is'nt among this weekend's fatalities ? '
' God, Jasus, you would'nt be kept in hospital. '
' What would he be like without a tongue. Fuck no ! The deaf have enough to put up with. '
' Fuck, you really have a face only a mother could love. '
' The best argument for abortion I've ever come across. '
Of course, there always ONE :
' What bike is it ? ' says he.
Him's face lights up ( unfortunately not because he was dosed with petrol, the little pox ).
' A Bros ' says he.
Headlines some time later :
8 bikers found innocent of the hanging, drawing and quartering of Him. After listening to tape of Him in full flow, Judge directs jury to return a verdict of innocent due to the nature of the extreme provocation and the mass temporary insanity brought on by the little pox. Judge says that if he had been there, he would have lent a hand and come up one or two more ideas for inflicting pain on the boring little shite. He congratulated the 8 bikers on ridding the world of one more pox on the face of biking.
The judge invites the 8 bikers back to chambers for a drink and to tell them about his tuned race cg 125.
Headlines some time later :
8 bikers found innocent of the disemboweling ...........................................
You know who you are - be afraid, you boring little arsehole
RANT & RAVE NO. 3
Here we go again. Death, death and more death on our roads. And what is refrain from our fucking leaders :
Slow down, please !
What is this fascination that our fucking so-called leaders have with laying the blame for everything at the door of speed ? What about drink, drugs, stupidity, lack of driving skills ? Bertie, Cullen, Gaybo and all the rest – all full of shite. What’s that programme ? Can’t cook, won’t cook ?
Our lot is more “ Can’t save lives, won’t save lives “. Plenty of fucking hot-air though. Anyway, what the fuck is Gay Byrne doing on that committee ? Does riding a HD for a couple of months make him a fucking expert ? He only had that because Bonehead gave it to him. If he was so fucking interested in bikes, why did’nt he buy one years ago ? Could he not afford one ? What a load of bollox.
DE MASTER PLAN
“ Here’s what we’ll do lads “ says Bertie. “ We’ll make sure every car, van, truck, moped and motorbike dat comes into de country is restricted to a top speed of 30 mph ( or is dat 30 kph?) After all, de ad says that if you hit a child at 30 mph ( or is that 30 kph ? Bleedin’ Europeans ! Dey’ve even stopped given us money, so dey’re not much use to us now, are dey ? ), she’ll be fine but at 40, she be dead. So, dat will solve de death rate problem. As a matter of fact, why don’t we ban anything on two wheels, anyways. Sure we’ll eliminate all dose fuckin broken arms and things as well . Jasus, I’m a fuckin’ genius, so I am.
An’ lissen, think about the money we’ll save on repairing de roads ! ‘Cos de low speed won’t cause as much damage an’ we won’t have to build anymore motorways ‘cos we only built dem to get people fast from one place to de udder an’ if dey can’t go fast, den we don’t need them. Anyways, dem motorways were only good for getting a few bob ( Jasus, sorry, lads, euros ) from the NTR crowd AN’ it wuld save us having to buy dat bloody M50 toll bridge. God, Jasus, I’ll get us re-elected yet.
Anyways, do you tink dey’d go for a total ban on ALL cars and tings ? ‘Cos if dey did, weed meet dose emissions quota tings dat de EEC, EC, EU or wotever dey call demselves now are taken us to court over. Ah, fuck it, go for it lads. Martin, sort it out. You’ve made such a bollix of tings up to now, another one won’t matter and we’ll blame you anyways. Biffo, see wot sort of tax we can put on straw and oats and stuff dat de horses ate. Jasus, dat’ll make the farmers happy. An de horse breeders. ‘Cos dat’be the only form of transport left. An we might be able to have anudder coalition wid de Greens ‘cos dey’ll luv dis.
Wot ? Wot ? Wot are you on aboud, Mary ? Jasus, between you and Mick the Mad Mullah, oil get pepsi ulsters ! Always Mr an Mrs. Sensibal. Wot are you on aboud ? Training de drivers !!! Jasus, do you tink de are the Dubs or someting ? Lads, de ye hear dat ? Training ! Wot else ? Proper roads ! Edcumacation ? Proper tests ? Jasus, de next you know, youll be expecting us to clear the backlog of driving tests. dat’s why youse lot will never be the bog, sorry big party in Irish politics. Youse want to spend money on something dat might work, while we, de big party, will only spend money on tings dat don’t work, see ? An den we give the gobshites, sorry, de people a few tax cuts or sumtin and blame Martin Cullen an de unions get loads of tings dat don’t actually cost money but dey tink dere great and the business crowd, well at least the big ones and de builders, are happy and so is de VDP and all the charity crowd and Father healy. So don’t start telling me aboud tings dat might work, sure we did’nt get to where we are today by spending money roight and by been clever. We might be cute hoors but no ever accused us of been clever.
Wots dat, Biffo ? De Ministerial Mercs ? Ah, Jasus, don’t you ders always a wot-you-call-it ? a detergent ? a degenerate ( no, dat’s de other bollix we made ), anyways dere’s always exceptions to de rules, so youse can hold on to the de mercs.
Well, dat’s it, problem solved, meeting adjourned.
Who’s coming for a pint of bass ?
RANT & RAVE NO. 4
George, known to his friends as Dubya and proud to include Adolph, Uncle Joe, Ghengis Khan, Saddam ( oops, they fell out, did’nt they ? ), Franco, Mussulini among those friends – I just noticed, most his friends are dead – does this mean George is dead too ? Well, he’s obviously brain dead anyway.
Do you remember a programme back in the eighties called Sptting Image ? This was when Ronnie Reagan and Maggie Thatcher ruled the world and Ronnie had a constant hard-on for Maggie. Anyway we will not dwell on the stomach churning image of Rons and Mags hard at it but rather recollect the portrayal of Rons. Spitting had an on-going gag called the “ The President’s brain is missing “ and would show Rons sitting around in a vegetative state ( an accurate prediction as it turned out ) while his brain ( an undersized walnut ) legged it.
My point being, you may ask ? Well there are obvious parallels to be drawn between Rons and Georgie. Rons’ saving grace was that he actually had a brain even if :
- It was the size of walnut
- It was missing.
This cannot be said for Georgie. He just has’nt got a brain. I am fully convinced that he is’nt even a zombie. Zombies were once human.
No, I am absolutely convinced that the Republican Party secretly contracted the creators of the Muppet Show and Spitting Image to construct George with strict instructions that he was to not have even the level of intelligence of Gonzo, simply an ability to repeat what he is told, parrot-fashion.
Unfortunately, they created a parrot which was grievously flawed in that, while real parrots are quite capable of mimicing the english language ( or any other language ), Dubya just simply mangles it and cannot even remember what he is told to say ( to the great amusement of the entire world ).
Unfortunately, there is a more sinister side to all of this. In their efforts to give this fucking muppet a human side, the creators imbued Georgie with the personality traits of his aforementioned friends but forgot to add some of the traits of Mother Teresa, Ghandhi, Jesus Christ, Mohammed and others of their ilk.
So we ended up with a brain-dead, language mangling muppet with all the charm of a dog turd floating in your soup, the IQ of a squashed apricot and the instincts ( not to be mistaken for intelligence ) of a cross between rabid rothweiller and a starving Nile crocodile.
Why do they not just turn him off, you may ask ? Can’t, that’s why. In their efforts to go one better than Adolph and create the perfect human being, they made the mistake of creating an indestructable Muppet . There are only two ways that Georgie can be destroyed. One is by the vote of the American people ( democracy in action ????? ) who obviously have the intelligence of Ronnie R as they voted Dubya back in last time. The second is by his term of office concluding which happens in a year or two. Also, Georgie, while not having any brain or human intelligence, was given a highly developed survival instinct and duly managed to procreate ( don’t ask ) and produced, fully developed, a Don Rumsfeld and a Connie Rice plus some other small bit players.
The question must be asked : Will Georgie and pals actually terminate at the appropriate time ?
Or has some dastardly plot been hatched to ensure their survival ?
Dare we even contemplate this “ End of Days “ ?
In the meantime, Iraqis are slaughtered in the name of peace and democracy, Lebanese are slaughtered in the name of peace and democracy by the Middle Eastern American puppets, Afghanis are abandoned to the tender mercies of the Taliban and the war lords, young Americans die daily for peace and democracy, North Korea gives the fingers to the USA and the world with no fine US show of strength, Iran gives the fingers to America and the world with no fine American show of strength, definitely some innocent people are held without trial by America for years, torture is the rule rather than the exception, the environment suffers because of the self-interest of American business, Home Land Security personnel are stationed in the airports of sovereign countries to make sure America is safe and fuck the rest of you. The sub-muppets, Aherne and Blair, toady up to Georgie in their own separate but equally nauseating fashion. The rest of the world and the UN protest in vain. And so-forth, ad nauseum.
So, what happens next ? Will the US of A invade Norn’Ireland to ensure that no members of RIRA convert to Islam, thereby posing a threat to American homeland security ? Will a nuclear bomb be dropped on Wales because they speak a strange and unknown language ( hold on, that’s not going to happen – Dubya can relate strongly to strange and unknown languages ). Will America tale a leaf from the Israelis and establish buffer zones in Mexico and Canada in case all those millions nasty, smelly arabs living there decide to launch katushka rockets attacks on the Alamo ? ( Canada I can live with, leave Mexico alone, they entertained us greatly during the World Cup ). Maybe any one who does’nt spell colour as color, tyres as tires, does’nt call petrol, gasoline ( you get my drift ? ) will be eliminated ?
I’m not a religious person but I will make an exception in this guy’s case. I am now preparing a rota of prayer to the Gods of all major and minor religions – Catholicism, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Krishna, etc., etc. etc., in the hope that at least one Deity is listening and has the compassion to ensure Georgie’s demise.
In the meantime, go to http://www.politicalhumour.about.com/library/blbushisms.htm
RANT & RAVE NO. 5
I’ve just watched a Panorama program about the Real World Cup – the riots that we did’nt see. Obviously, being a British program, it concentrated on our favourite sub-species, the English Football Hooligan.
And sub-species is truly the correct term. Clearly, every country has its own sub-species but England really tops the lot.
However, the program concentrated on the behaviour of the Hooligan species but made no attempt was made to explain the why. So, let us examine the traits which mark this sub-species from true humans:
Differences:
When young, the Hooligan male looks very similar to a human being. However, as he grows older, the similarities disappear and the differences become more pronounced ( it is indeed unfortunate that we cannot identify the sub-species when young as it may be possible to genetically alter them to bring them to the level of, say, a sheep. In this way, they could live productive lives until we eat them ).
The first similarity to alter appears to be in the visage – hair disappearing until all that remains is bristle, the forehead lowers and eyes become sunken. The nose changes and becomes either flattened or extremely crooked. Lips narrow and there is generally a significant loss of teeth. Ears appear to crumple until they resemble cauliflowers. Then, shoulders slope and arms elongate, stomachs become bloated ( the reason for this is not clear but the theory is advanced that the Hooligan possesses an abnormal thirst and hunger which can only be assuaged by copious amounts of lager and vindaloo ). Legs tend to become bent and arses droop ( commonly on view to the public due to the lack of a waist to support their jeans ).
In general, the face carries an expression which can only be compared to that of a cretin or, at best, a moron. This expression rarely changes except when the Hooligan has consumed many litres of lager or bitter. It is at this stage that he is at his most dangerous. Clear warning is given by the heightening of complexion, drooling at the mouth and the uttering of strange, unintelligible guttural shouts and chants which sound to some like the words “ Come on Eng-er-land “, “ Fucking Pakis “, Fucking Krauts “, Fucking Paddies “, Fucking Niggers “ and the like. In fact, the only word which can be truly recognized is the Anglo – Saxon derived “ fuck “. The Hooligan appears to be fond of fucking or at least shouting about it.
At this stage of development, the Hooligan is at least tolerable to the human race and is no more annoying or dangerous than a rabid beast. It is the next stage of development which should cause us all grave concern. This is when the Hooligan finds it impossible to find a mate. He then gravitates to other males of his kind and they form a herd or to use the correct terminology, a FIRM. It is at this point that the Hooligan becomes truly dangerous. Due to sexual frustration, the aforementioned copious amounts of beer and vindaloo and courage enhanced by the company of the Firm, the Hooligan now becomes extremely aggressive and, hence, extremely dangerous. On his own, the Hooligan is more to be pitied than laughed at. But once within the comfort zone of the Firm, all that changes. It appears that even at this stage, the situation is containable but once the trigger word is spoken ( Football ), violence erupts. One of the most amazing characteristics of the Hooligan Firm is that if they cannot find someone different to attack, they will turn upon themselves.
One of the biggest mysteries of the Hooligan is how he procreates. There have been rare sightings of female hooligans but not in great numbers and certainly insufficient to account for the vast numbers of Hooligans across the world.
If a popular theory is to be believed then we must all fear for the future of the human race. The theory is that the Hooligan, for very short periods, is capable of behaving in a human-like fashion. The theory is based on the premise that the Hooligan becomes sober from time to time ( generally due to a long hospitalization after a ruck ) and can fool normal human females into intercourse. As there has been a huge build-up of Hooligan sperm over the long months and years of enforced celibacy, the human female is much more likely to be impregnated even though the period of sobriety lasts a very short time ( generally as long as it takes to get from the hospital to the pub ) However, the Hooligan will take full advantage of the 30 minutes or so of sobriety to ensure the survival and expansion of the Hooligan species.
It is perhaps time that the human race took this sub-species seriously and took positive action as soon as the first signs show in the evolution to full-blown Hooligan. Castration would be a good place to start and is probably the more humane course of action. Personally, I would be in favour of simple termination with extreme prejudice although this would be likely to raise ethical issues such as cruelty to animals.
Anyway, I would like to think that this short article has helped alert you, the reader, to the dangers to the survival of the human race.
RANT & RAVE NO. 6
THE CUSTOMER: Ring – ring ….ring – ring
BMT : Hello, Blakestown Motorcycle Tyres. Can I help you ?
C :Is that Blakestown Motorcycle Tyres ?
BMT :( There’s always ONE ) Yes, this is Blakestown Motorcycle Tyres ( I’ve just said so, did’nt I ? ) , can I help you ? ( You need more than my help, you deaf fucker ).
C : I’m looking for tyres for my bike. Would you have any ?
BMT : I’m sure we can help ( unless it’s a fucking push bike ). So, what type of bike is it and what tyres would you like ?
C : It’s a CB 400 - 4 K, 1978 and I’d like Diablos.
BMT : ( Jasus, this is a HIM ) So. Let me get this straight – you want to put Diablos on a 1978 spoke wheel bike, is this correct ?
C : Yes
BMT : Why ?
C : Well, all me mates say that Diablos are super sticky and I want to be safe and not fall off.
BMT : ( What a wanker ) Well, sir, there is just one small problem ( there’s about 20 actually but why waste my breath ) Diablos are’nt made in CB 550 sizes.
C : Oh ! Well what about Dunlop Qualifiers, I heard they’re really sticky ?
BMT : ( Fucking Hell !! I think I’ll declare myself bankrupt, it could’nt be any worse than this ) Look, what you are asking about are fast road/track tyres. They’re for modern sports bikes and don’t come in your sizes ( Well, I bet they’d fit your head ). You just can’t get those type of tyres for your bike.
C : But me mates all say that the super sticky tyres are absolutely essential for grip and everything.
BMT : Look, your bike is 28 years old, does about 100 mph on a good day, would’nt pull you out of bed and never heard of fucking super sticky tyres when it was made and not too many riders fucking fell off.
C : Well, I never !!
BMT : Listen, if you’re that worried about falling off, get a bleedin’ trike or, better still, take a bus. Just don’t keep banging on about fucking tyres that would’nt do you any good, even if you could get them in your sizes. AND you obviously have more money than sense, so why don’t you just come on up and give it to me, anyway, for fuck’s sake !!!!
C : You’re very rude. and for your information, the magazines all say that Diablos are the best. and so do me mates, so there.
BMT : Are you fucking deaf ? Were you born stupid or do you just work hard at it ? Are you a plant by me opposition to drive me mad ? They don't make them to fit your bike, you stupid bollix !!!!!!!!
C : Well, do you have any Qualifiers in my sizes ?
BMT : AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ( Enter men in white coats )
RANT & RAVE 7:
MY HOLIDAY:
SHITE! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
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RANT & RAVE 8:
Mobile Phones and Loctite:
The worst fucking invention since fucking religion…. and politicians…..and rock super stars (Bonehead springs to mind)…and pillion passengers…..and….and….ah, bollox, everything.
Now fucking listen up. This true.
The mobile phone companies and Loctite have a secret deal. Why else do you think that everybody is walking around with mobile phones glued to their bleedin’ ears ? It’s surely not from choice ….is it ? I mean why the fuck would anyone in his right mind want one of those things stuck to the side of his face.
Now, women I can sort of understand, I mean, they just don’t stop fucking talking. But even so, a mobile is’nt the most attractive piece of jewelery around. Anyway, think about it for minute. No normal person would drive a car at 30, 40, 30, 45, 25 mph with a fag in one hand, granny in the passenger seat, five kids and a dog in the back and willingly talk on a mobile at the same time. So, the fucking phone MUST be super-glued to the fucker’s ear, yeah ?
And you’re in the cinema or theatre ( Big signs : Please turn of your fucking mobiles) and off they go. Still stuck to the wankers’ ears and it now looks like the off button is also glued open, the pricks. And who are they calling ? Their fucking mates in the next row !!!
Now there are people who appear to have managed to unglue the poxy phones from their ears. And these tossers have developed a nervous disorder in their thumbs called texting. Lord Jasus, they can’t even have a cup of tea without the thumb going like the clappers. There is disorder called wanker’s cramp. These cunts develop texter’s cramp which totally disables their thumbs.The upside of this texter’s cramp is that they can’t get wanker’s cramp. What I want to know is : Do these arseholes continue talking and texting when they are having it off ? Or is the vibrator alert a useful sex aid ? And who are these people talking to and texting ? Can they really have that many friends ? I don't think so !!!
Did you ever try this experiment ? Challenge one of these poor fools to ignore his ( or her ) mobile phone the next time it rings. Then ring the stupid arse. I guarantee you that he ( or she ) will not be able to ignore the fucking thing. You see, this is incase the sad bastards miss an important call like “ You’ve won the lottery “ or “ Your fifth cousin twice removed in Tasmania has died “ or “ My mobile phone charger is’nt working. Come home immediately and fix it “ ( Now, there’s an important call ).
I blame that fucking Bob Hoskins fella who used to be on the telly telling everyone it’s good to talk. Yeah, it’s good for him, he’s a bleeding actor. You know, if the axis of evil wanted to fuck up any country, all they would have to do is rob all the mobile phones. Better than any chemical or biological attack. Most of the populations would suffer withdrawal symptoms, go into a deep depression and kill themselves, the economies would collapse, there would be anarchy and Ireland could take over everywhere with no resistance ( providing we could do a deal with the terrorists not to take our phones – Gerry should be able to broker a deal there ).
Back to Loctite.
Did you know that they have stopped making their glue solvent. If you manage to kick the habit you have to go to a solvent pusher to get the solvent or else rip your ear off to remove the fucking phone. Anyway, I’m pissed off now talking shite…. Oh, hold on, what’s that, the phone’s ringing, I’d better answer it………..if I could unglue it from my dog’s arse.
RANT & RAVE 9:
Will you fit my tyres ( I bought them in Disney World and they only cost me €30 for the Pair, you robbing bollix ) ? :
Now, lissen, fair play to the guy who gets his tyres nice and cheap in Disney World. But why the fuck does he think I should fit them cheap ? Is the cunt blind or what ? Can he not see that I SELL fucking tyres ? Does he think I have a stock of tyres ‘cos I have a fucking rubber fetish ? Or that I just think tyres make nice ornaments ? Or maybe he thinks he’s still in Never-Never Land ? Of course, being the nice guy that I am, I find it hard to say no. I also think that the prick is probably poor or something. After spending his money on his nice new K6, top of the range Arai lid, full set of colour co-ordinated Dainese leathers, full Stage 7 dyno and Yoshimura can and all the other shite hanging off him and his bike, he probably just can’t afford to buy tyres at Irish prices after coming back from his 8 week world cruise.
So, I always end up agreeing to fit the tyres and the guy is very happy…..until I tell him the price. “ €70, fitting only, tenner for balancing, Sir. “ Out comes the abuse phrase book :
“Where’s your balaclava ?”
“ No wonder you’ve no customers. “
“ You’re a thieving fucking bollix. “
“ Fucking Dick Turpin. “
“ Wanker ! “
Best of all is the hurt look and the air of umbrage :
“ God, that’s very dear. I only paid E30 and you want more than twice the cost to fit them. God, that’s very dear. “
At this stage, I do all in my power to calm the nice person down. I put a stick between his teeth, lift him of the floor and sit him down in my best chair ( the one with all the oil and grease and dog hairs on it ), strap him in, give a cup of cha with loads of sugar or salt, whichever is handiest, in my best jam jar and try to rationally explain why I would have the temerity to charge €70 for fitting his cheap tyres. “
Are you sitting comfortably ? Then I’ll begin. Now, listen, stupid, what does it say over my door ? Is it VdP ? No, it’s BMT. So, immediately we’ve established that I’m NOT a fucking charity. Is’nt that good ? ( Just nod or shake your head – I’ll remove the gag later ). OK, we’re agreed that this is actually a business. Now, next question ( and take your time on this one ) : What do you see on my racks ? I’ll make easy for you, a multiple choice :
- Answer A : Flowers
- Answer B : Dishwashers
- Answer C : Condoms
- Answer D : Motorcycle Tyres
Would you like to phone a friend ? Ask the audience ? ‘Cos I know this a hard one. Answers C & D could confuse. After all, both items are made from rubber. Very good, Answer D … Correct !!
Now moving swiftly along, let’s re-cap on events to date :
- 1. You bought these cheap tyres.
- 2. You brought them in to me to get them fitted.
- 3. I tell you it will cost €70 and a tenner extra for balancing.
- 4. You get thick and start giving me grief.
- 5. As a result of being a cheeky, stupid bollix, you are now strapped to my favourite chair getting the third degree.
- 6. And it’s not going to get any better.
Now, we’ve established that this a business not a charity and that I sell tyres. Next question : How much did you think I was going to charge ? Before you reply, take into account the following :
- 1. Removing your wheels from your bike.
- 2. Removing the tyres from your wheels.
- 3. Fitting your cheap tyres.
- 4. Balancing your wheels.
- 5. Re-fitting your wheels to your bike.
- 6. I have a few thousand euro worth of tyres sitting on my racks.
Oops, sorry, I forgot about the gag. Just nod when I say the right figure, OK ? €50…no ? €40….no ? €30….yes!!! So, I do about an hour’s work for €30, pay my overheads and have enough left over for 10 pack of fags just so you can have cheap tyres ? Ooo ! Sorry, my hand just slipped that time. I’m sure your gonads will heal in time.
Now it’s edumacation time, you stupid moron. If everybody buys cheap tyres and all the other bits and bobs that are cheaper else where, how many proper bike shops do you think might be left in Ireland ? Very few, you silly bollix, ‘COS THEY WILL ALL BE OUT OF BUSINESS !!!!!
And here’s a good one. What happens if the tyre or whatever has a fault ? Will you send it back to where you bought it at your own expense ? And maybe be without your bike while it’s sorted ? Or have to buy another tyre, IN IRELAND, while you’re waiting to see if the boys in Disney Land agree that it’s a real fault.
Why are your eyes bulging ? Oh, you’ve swallowed your tongue. Does it taste nice ? Well, I suppose I could take off the gag now. Will you promise not to cry ? OK, there, there, is that better ? Let just get this hook and I’ll pull your tongue back up from your gut. Good, that’s grand now, a few stitches and you’ll be fine. Here, have a sup of tea. Oops, sorry, did that sting ? I must have put salt in instead of sugar.
For fuck’s sake, you want me to untie you now ? Your hands and feet have gone numb ? OK, but I want you to stand up immediately I untie you. There you go.
Get up of my floor, you lazy bollix. You can’t stand ? Well stay there for a bit, I want to test the suspension on this GL 1800. Bit soft I’d say, must sort it out.
Anyway, do you understand why I go to all this trouble to explain things to people like you ?
Do you appreciate me taking the time to talk to you ? And the tea ? I know, I’m just a nice bloke. Now do you want your tyres fitted or not ? Well that’s nice of you, I can keep the tyres. And you’ll buy a set from me …but next week…when you recover.
Jasus, that’s nice of you.
Pete, help this man on to his bike, will ya ? Off you go now and I’ll see you next week. And I’ll give you back your license and insurance cert then. And don’t forget to tell all the lads on http://www.irishbikerforum .com what a nice fella I am. ‘Bye, bye, now.
Well, Pete, that’s grand, isn’t it ? Another satisfied customer and another set of free tyres. Sure, isn’t life only great ?
RANT & RAVE 10 : IRELAND V GERMANY
ANNOUNCEMENT : THIS IS A SERIOUS DISCUSSION. THERE WILL BE NO BAD LANGUAGE ALLOWED.
Watched the match last night. I suppose a bit of an improvement on the last one. But there is something seriously wrong here. I mean, why are there so many old guys on the team ? Look at the manager, it was obvious to everyone that he had lost total control. The wingers fighting with each other, the centre forward looked like he had just come along for the ride and then, the manager loses it completely and gets involved in the free-for-all. For God’s sake, is that anyway to manage the national team ? As for the players, Holy Moses !!! Is this the best we can produce ? Is there no young blood coming through ? I mean to say, experience obviously counts for something but when the most the team can hardly move ? And did you see your man on the left wing ? I thought he was having a fit. He never got a smell of the ball but, by Crikey, he threw a few shapes. AND he never stopped talking to anyone who’d listen.
And as for your man on the right ! Where in the name of the Blessed Virgin did he think he was ? In a mattress testing factory. I mean to say, the only time he came to life was when he had a pop at the other winger. And even then, it was an half-hearted effort. Did he not realize that he had a job to do and at least show us some commitment ? Some passion ?
The centre forward ? Ah, now, there we have everything which epitomises all that is wrong with the team. He’s lethargic, hates his team mates, disagrees with everyone, plays his own game ( even in the wrong direction sometimes ), clearly only there for the pension fund. What the in the world is going on?
Look, lads, I don’t know a huge amount about football but, like art, I know what I like. So, here’s a few suggestions :
- First, stop the bloody fighting among yourselves.
- Next, get fit. You should try Ben Dunne’s Fitness Centre in Blanchardstown.
- Then, get goodlooking. There’s nothing that upsets the opposition more than seeing a really good looking team come out to face them ‘cos most footballers are such ugly gentlemen. The guys off Nip & Tuck should be able to help out there.
- Most important,you have to stop the drinking, lad., at least before the match. You are all too old for it and the hangovers just go on and on. As you well know, drink causes impaired judgement and motor function and leads to aggression. The aggression is fine once it is directed at the opposition but never, never at each other.
- Get on a good diet. Stop the Big Macs and go with Burger King. Much healthier, flame grilled you know AND you get these absolutely massive lumps of lettuce with the burgers. That’ll soon get you healthy.
- This is especially for the manager. I know you’re a long time at it but I find that, as we get older, our ideas get stale. You should find an experienced mentor ( to coin a phrase ) to help. Someone who has been around a while and has plenty of experience at all levels. Could I suggest a few names ? Bill Shankly or Matt Busby would do nicely. Or if you wanted someone that is actually alive, try Glenn Hoddle or Kevin Keegan or even Graham Souness ( he sounds a bit Irish, so he’d fit in nicely and I know that at least one of the players loves him ). And if you could convince Sir Alf Ramsey to make a comeback, sure that would be brilliant.
- Regarding the team, consideration has to be given to the young players coming through. There’s a wealth of talent out there. There’s a young fella called Roy Keane from Cork, apparently he’d fit in very well with the current team spirit of aggression and hate. There could be a language barrier problem there but subtitles would work well. There’s a guy called Tony Cascarino or something like that. Now, listen, there could be a problem with this guy, so be careful. I heard it on the grapevine that he’s not really Irish, that his great-great-great grand aunt was’nt actually from Ireland, so FIFA might cop on and screw everything up but I still think it’s worth a try.
Now, look lads, I really can’t help out anymore. I’m a busy man. But what I am willing to do is fill in the odd time. I have all the credentials needed. I’m old but still good looking, I have passion ( I love arguing ), I eat Burger King, I don’t drink, I smoke loads and I know absolutely nothing about football, so if you need a hand at anytime, just give me a call. The only thing is that I just won’t go abroad, at least I won’t fly. So you’ll have book me on the Orient Express if you want me to go to any of our away matches like in Kurdistan or Ukraine or Siberia. Oh, that’s another thing. Which competitions do we play in ? Are we involved in the Former Countries of the Soviet Union League ? Great places these. I’m sorry lads, I have to go now, the Dubs manager is asking for my advice on how to beat the culchies. It’s very simple really. Find out which culchie players have Dublin great-great-great grand aunts and bring them into the team. Or even if they have relations living in Dublin, that’ll kill them altogether. Anyway, Bill, Johnny, Liam, Eamon, I wish you the best of luck, hope you get your act together and then we can look forward to seeing you for another FUCKING 50 years.
RANT & RAVE 11: TOUCHY-FEELY
Wots dis about ? I expect dis shite to come from wimmen about feelings and “ talking through de problems inherent in our relationship “ ( wot fucking problems ? ) and “ Let’s go see a counselor and resolve de issues between us “ ( unless it’s a female sex therapist who’s gonna show me some new tricks, I don’t wanna know ) and “ Don’t be afraid to cry “ ( de only time I cry is after watchin Ireland play ) and all dat other pussy shite. But it’s coming from so-called men now. For fuck’s sake, will you come out the closet and have de operation and don’t be confusing the shite out of me. Look it, men are men an we don’t want to fuckin be wastin our precious breath an time on dis sort of stuff.
Her indoors stated dis shite the uddr night and I sez wots wrong wid our relationship : I get up, go to work, come home, have me dinner, go to de pub or watch de telly and go to bed. And on Saturdays I watch de racing or de footie an have a bet and a pint, have me dinner an go to de pub. An on Sundays, I watch de racin or de footie IN to de pub. I’m always home be one or two. You never have to worry about me bein unfaithful cos I’m always pissed and can’t do anything ( AS you well know ). You get your housekeeping most weeks and I always pay de bills ( alright, not always on time but dat’s not my fault – you don’t remine me sometimes ). I nearly always remember your birthday and our anniversary. I don’t buy any presents ? But you have everything you need, so wots de point ? De kids’ birthdays ? Wot kids ? I tell you I love you regularly, every Christmas. An we do talk,we always have a good chat when I’m looking for a few shekels for a pint and don’t I aways tink of you and bring you in de curry and chips after de pub. Yeh, I know that you do be asleep and dat I end up eating dem but it’s de thought dat counts.
I tink our sex life is great. You KNOW I never drink on Good Friday and don’t we have a great old time of it. Wot ! You don’t like up it dere ? So why the fuck do you moan so much ? Oh ! ‘cos it hurts. Jasus, I thought you were enjoying it. So how else are we goin to stop you gettin pregnant again ? Wot ??? Get de snip ? Wot do tink I am, a nancy boy or one of dem transalp yokes ? I’d loose me manhood if I did dat ! No fucking way ! Anyways, to get back to de point, dese fuckin PC pricks or New Age men or House Husbands or wotever dey call demselves ( did youse ever see de gobshites out with de pram doin the shoppin and lookin for de bargains ? Holy Jasus !!! ) are ruinin real men’s lives. You knoe, “ Why can’t you more like Jonathan down de road ? He’s such a sensitive person. Do you know, he cried yesterday when he saw de little sparrow wid de broken wing. “ Well, did he tink of puttin de poor little bastard out of it’s misery. He did in me arse !
Dis is all de fault of de wimmen and de PC crowd up Dublin.4. Dey started out with givin wimmen de same money as men, den lettin dem into darmy an de polis an de brigade an buildin sites an tings. Wot was wrong wid shops and Gramby sausage factory and dat ? Then they gave them the vote and let them be altar boys. Wot de yea expect when dis happens only dat de wimmen get above dere sation. So, den the cunts started in on all de men and all de yung fellas got afeared and started to change. An now all dey wanna talk bout is fuckin emotions and babies and dere wife’s periods and de best face cream and how dey love wachin bleedin Love Story and how it makes dem fill up, its so fuckin sad and group hugs and dey can fuck off if dey tink I’m givin a fuckin hug you wudnt knoe wot youd catch. And do you knoe dat some of dose fellas wear wimmens knickers ? Now, I admit dat I’ve dun dat meself but only because I’d shit meself after a feed of porter and dere were no clean wans in de hot press. Jasus, dey cut the bollix offa me.
All I know dat dere’s only a few of us real men left where I live. De rest are all nancy boy bollixes wid no balls, doin evryting de wives tell dem and hangin out de washin and makin bleedin dinners instead of gettin a take away and bringin home bunches of flours in front of de hole road instead of sneakin dem in under dere coat if dey really must do dat shite or if dey’ve dun sumtin wrong. Dey go to de pub and drink fuckin 2 bottles of some lager shite and talk fuckin more shite about de bleedin envirnment or de upcoming concert in de national concert hall or some such shite AND dey do be havin dere wimmin with dem.
Looka, it bleedin simpel, real men don’t be on about feelings ( unless its feelin your woman who’s drunk in de corner ), we talk bout important tings like Liverpool or United and who’s goin to win de darts, we take loads of exercise walkin to de ockey or round de snooker table, we drink Guiness or Smithicks, smoke 40 john players or major a day, go to work or de dole, don’t cause any trouble really unless it’s a fight between Liverpool and united fans or even dat shower who support Chelsea ( everyone bashes dem ), we talk to de missus a lot like “ Is de dinner reddy ? “ or “ Is me jocks washed yet, I’m goin out ? “ , we ALWAYS shave on Sundays, change our socks at least once a week, we take de kids out to sportin events ( de local darts competition – is’nt it terrible de way dey fuck de kids out at 7, I’m glad I only live two miles from me local ‘cos udderwise I’d be worried bout de kids getting home ), we hardly ever annoy de missus cos we’re never dere, so wot de fuck could be wrong wid dat sort of relationship ?
Anyways, I’ve a pain in me bollix wid all did shite. I’m tinkin of getting a divorce and leggin it outa de country all togetter. I’m looking for a bit of ecitment in me life now. But I really want some place where I’d fit in and where de wimmen knoe dere place. I heard of a place called Afghanistan, does anyone know if dat wuld do me ?
RANT & RAVE NO 12 :
Do you know what I hate ? Fucking everything !!! So where will I start ? I know, silly cunts, male and female, at weddings and shit like that who insist on making a pig’s arse of themselves by fucking singing. You know what I’m talking about ? Yeh, you should, you’re probably one of those morons yourself.
Anyway, what the fuck possesses normally sane people to do this ? I mean the fucking assholes generally can’t sing a fucking note and when the stupid cunts are drunk there’s no hope.
Alright, so there are a few who can actually hold a note but, Jasus, that’s about one in hundred. What about the other 99% ? What’s their excuse ? And there’s no age limit either. You’ve the got the tone deaf fucking mammies sending their obnoxious brats up to sing.
“ My Seany is only brill. He’s just like Ronan Keating ! “ As if that was any fucking recommendation ! And what do you get ? Some squeaky-voiced little pox screeching out some intellectually challenged fucking pop song and gyrating around the bleeding stage like an epileptic tazmanian dust devil.
Or the fucking doddery,toothless aul shite, pissed as the proverbial newt ( which reminds me, did anyone ever see a pissed newt ? Has anyone even seen a sober newt these days ? Who’s the thick cunt who came up with that stupid fucking saying ? ) who shuffles up to the stage , has to be lifted on to it, clings on for dear life to the mike ( or even Mike )and caterwauls for the next 20 minutes about the fucking Fields of Athenry or some such dire drivel.
And then we’ve the “ FOUR GIRLS “ who all think they’re Madge and proceed to absolutely destroy “ Like a Virgin “. As fucking if !!!!!!!!!!!!!! The best thing about these fools is the fact that they actually think they’re sooooo sexy and proceed to flash their tits and knickers to the absolute joy of all the lads ( and some ladettes ), who, of course, cheer them on ( especially the doddery oul shite who by now is in a prone position right in front of stage and has a bird’s eye view right up the “ FOUR GIRLS’ “ mini-skirts, especially the slapper with no knickers ) and hope to jasus one of the stupid cunts will loose it altogether and at least go totally toples( especially the one with the huge tits - pity she’s an ugly cunt but, sure, you don’t look at the mantle piece when you’re poking the fire ). OF COURSE, the lads want an encore.
And what about GRAN ? There she is , sipping her port and lemon, looking totally befuddled and surrounded by all the fucking family, all fucking drunk of course. And what happens ? “ God, Gran always had a lovely singing voice, can we get her up to sing ? “ So, two of the grand-daughters grab GRAN ( and the zimmer frame ), drag her to the stage, fuck her and the frame up on it, stick the mike ( or Mike ) in her hand and leg it, sniggering like the pair of evil little cunts that they are.
So, there’s GRAN, still fucking totally befuddled and she looks at the mike. Something stirs in her memory and she tries to get the fucking thing into her mouth. There’s all these sucking sounds emanating from the speakers and the family are now fucking mortified and look around to find the fucking idiot who said GRAN had a lovely singing voice so they can give the arsehole the beating he or she deserves, while the two little sods who dragged poor GRAN up on to the stage are on the floor pissing themselves with laughter. Meanwhile, GRAN’s memory has improved and she’s busy trying to find somewhere else to stick the mike. But, fortunately, just before she finds that somewhere else, she collapses with excitement over the zimmer frame. The DJ kicks her off the stage into a corner where the family, who are busily engaged in knocking the shite out the gobshite who suggested GRAN could sing, promptly forget about poor aul GRAN. What a great cultural occasion !
And, of course, the fucking night would not be complete without “ HIM “. Who is “ HIM “ ? You may well ask.
“ HIM “ is the total gobshite who :
1. Really believes he can sing.
2. Really believes he can dance.
3. Really believes he is good looking.
4. Really believes he is God’s gift to women.
Reality Check :
1. He can’t sing a fucking note, he sounds like an elephant in the throes of orgasm ( don’t ask me how I know, right ! ) and can’t remember the words.
2. He certainly can’t dance as we know the meaning of the word. He hops around the stage like a kangaroo with a severe case of the shits, totally out of time with the music ( unless it’s the music in his head ) and looking like a prize plonker.
3.‘Nuff said. The prick has a face only a mother could love.
4. No self-respecting woman who was’nt blind would have anything to do with the wanker ( especially on seeing the stains down the front of his trousers – how do you think I know he’s a wanker ? ). There’s not enough money in the world to compensate any sane female for having anything to do with this specimen. A Roman nose ( roaming all over his face), ears the size and shape of cauliflowers, lips like truck tyres, teeth like black marble tombstones and blue eyes ( one blowing east, the other west ) and black hair ( only because he has’nt washed it in a month of Sundays ). And let’s not forget the halitosi. If the Yanks had any sense they’d send the pox to Iraq and the fuckers would just give up.
I could go on all day about the different specimens who trudge to the stage thinking they can sing but I won’t. I think you lot should come back with a few of your own favourite shitheads. Why the fuck do I get to do all the work ?
I’ll leave you with one question : When is the USA going to A-bomb Japan again ? What have the Japs done to deserve this, you may ask ?
They invented Karaoke. Is’nt that reason enough to wipe them from the face of earth ?
G’luck.
This photo has been deliberately posted out-of-focus to protect the guilty
