The Peter O'Philes

Peter O'Phile Has Died

2009-01-06T16:03:00.013Z

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/7813124.stm

Sadly (for you fuckers, anyway) I caught paedo-rectal-face-canceritis after coming into contact with 8th hand smoke (when a smoker causes a passive smoker to ingest smoke through her nose holes, who later excretes the toxins into a ditch, which a calf then drinks from, after which the calf is eaten in an ASDA ready meal by a nice young lady called Samantha, whose brains I then splatter all over my car bonnet in a bizarre "accident", and still later lick off), giving me a pretty heavy dose of superweaseliesnic.

My penis shrivelled to the length of an average bus and I suddenly developed absolutely no facial tics. I would often be found shouting at individual blades of grass by name, although this is not a recognised symptom of paedo-rectal-face-canceritis. Years later I was hit in the head by a flying chainsaw and the disease finally claimed its most awesome victim.

Since when was the BBC allowed to make stuff up? Oh wait...nevermind.

"They found that while 95% of non-smokers and 85% of smokers agreed that direct inhalation of second-hand smoke was harmful to children, just 65% of non-smokers, and 43% of smokers believed the same for "third-hand" smoke."

The most shocking statistic here is that up to 35% of the British public might not be complete fucking retards. I mean, it's probably just too small a sample or something and they accidentally asked one of the three people in the UK who can remember what the word "science" means. Anyway, long story short, the BBC are cunts, 3rd hand smoke is a fucking lie and I am dead, at least for now.

Atheism: Just Another Excuse To Act The Cunt

2008-10-23T13:58:00.007Z

Ok, I thought I could retire safely to my corner and concentrate on my mind-masturbation techniques. Sadly it turns out that there are just too many things fucked up and stupid for me to sit and...practice.

This http://www.atheistcampaign.org is for cunts. Why some tossing fuckspackers feel the need to force their religion down my fucking throat is beyond me, and this is no different.

I'll tell you now, if some fucking Atheist comes knocking on my door on Saturday morning, I'll be answering it in my pope outfit. That's a coincidence, but I'll be telling them to fuck right off anyway.

"Hi! Can I just ask, have you thought about not believing in God?"
"Hmmm, well I've thought about not believing in people who ring fucking doorbells to talk to strangers...I've thought about believing in stabbing garden forks into people who ring on doorbells to talk strangers...I'm not sure I've...oh, you've gone."

Oh, and be the way, people calling yourselves Atheists. Atheism is the belief that there is no god. The phrase "there's probably no god" would apply to Agnosticism. You don't even know what you do or don't not believing in, you fucking ball bothering morons. Go kill yourselves and go to not-hell or wherever the fuck it is you types go.
One last point. If you believed in some sort of god and the afterlife, I suspect that finding out that there is no god would be a pretty big concern, so don't give me that "don't worry" cock. Instead of infinity years to get all your business taken care of (gas bills, anti-cancer cure etc), you've now got about sixty. That's almost infinity years less than you were originally counting on. Puts your 2,000 year plan into real fucking timescaling issues, doesn't it?

Now, if everybody could stop being cunts, I'd like to go back to sleep.

A Sane Man's Product Review:Watt's On! Watts-On! What's'On'Oh fuck it

2007-10-27T10:36:00.000Z

That...thing, is called a Wattson. I hope that you haven't heard of it and I can now ruin your day before running off into the night wearing only a sheep. It monitors electricity usage.

Want a link to find out more? Here you go you lazy fuck:
http://www.google.co.uk

I have a few comments. You might like to take a seat, there's some maths involved. Let's start with the obvious.

How To Recreate Wattson's Monitor Function In Three Easy Steps, Using Simple Household Items Only:

Look at electricity meter.
Allow time to pass.
Look at electricity meter.

I'm recommending that the time taken over stage two should be around 65 years. Don't rush it, and don't go anywhere while the reading's going on, you'll fuck up the gamma correction.

How To Save More Money Than Wattson Costs:

Don't buy Wattson
Switch on light-bulb for 1.5 years.
Switch off light bulb
Alternatively, don't use a washing machine for 15 years**.

Yes, that's right. Running a light bulb constantly for 1.7 years* would cost you around £150. As would buying this piece of shit. Also the risk of a light bulb catching fire and burning your house down is minimal compared to my coming round and setting your baby alight if you own a Wattson.

Note that I ignored the fact that Wattson already has lights inside and so didn't have to calculate the cost of running the bastard thing. Also it avoided my head melting of internal rage.

How To Save More Environment Than By Using Wattson:

Don't Buy Wattson
Don't Buy Batteries For Wattson
Wait. Batteries?

Yes, that's right. Batteries. In a device intended to help save the environment. I have nothing more to say on this matter. It also appears to be made from plastic, so it will be around long after the manganese and mercury run out.

How To Have More Fun Than By Using Wattson:

Eat razor blades
Start a fight in a convent
Hunt down the idiots below and beat them to death with vegetarian shoes

http://www.ecolocal.com/uk/home_life/show/wattson http://www.newconsumer.com/news/item/wonderful_wattson_smart_meter_to_debut_at_150

I can't even comment on how dull watching that fucking thing must be. I'd rather watch myself get eaten from the inside out by a rat. Even bearing in mind that you can't even see anything at all for the first twenty minutes of agonising rat-pain.

So in summary, an idea that should have ended in a game of russian roulette, spawned by a company that should have been run by Northern Rock, bought by people who should be used to run my car.

I give it two cocks up.

* Wattson/Light Bulb Maths:
Electricity @ 10p per kWh
Price = £150.00
Price = 1500 kWh

Light bulb @ 100W
1500 kWh => 15000 h
15000 h = 625 days

*Wattson/Washing Machine Maths:
Average 1.5kWh per cycle
1000 cycles
1 cycle per week
18 years

Attention Car Companies: Try Harder

2007-10-23T16:34:00.000Z

It's high time someone took a stand against the idiotic fucking names car companies are giving their shitbox piece of crap cars nowadays. I can accept the poor, bland styling, safety-first handling, and mediocre performance they seem to think everyone on this planet wants. Accept, but not be happy about, of course.

However, when they then force me to ride in a car with a name so stupid I want to kill myself with a teaspoon just thinking about the process involved, I draw the line. Really, all it takes is a little thought guys. Look at your car. If it's a small box, call it the Smallbox, or Shitcrap - you get the idea.

The Fiat "Panda"

Don't arbitrarily call your car a panda unless it actually bears a resemblance to the white and black bear like mammal which held the name first:

A Fiat "Panda", Dim Sum.

Does your car look like a fucking panda? Come on, Sim-Sim, mate to save your species...Oh, ok, fuck you then. It's a car's exhaust you're trying to force your confused panda cock into anyway.

The Honda "Jazz"

To be perfectly honest, it's highly unlikely that your car has anything at all in common with a form of music typified by a strong but flexible rhythmic understructure, including solo and ensemble improvisations on basic tunes and chord patterns. SO WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU CALL YOUR CAR A JAZZ? Unless, of course you meant the colloquialism of Jazz - e.g. Love Juice, Spunk, Cum, White Sticky Water. In which case, I apologise as your car does actually look like a pile of wank.

Oh yeah, nice. The Honda "Jazz".

The Mitsubishi "Colt"

A colt is a young fucking horse, you retarded bastards. A young fucking horse. What does a big box made of metal, rubber and selotape have to do with horses? Nothing, you say? Well then please explain this titular travesty:

The Mitsubishi "Colt" prepares to take its first jump.

The Ford "Escort"

How about a car that spent last night lying on it's back getting fucked for money? Well, the Ford Escort will be right up your street, Sir. She'll take you where you want to go and suck you dry as she does it. Mind your wallet though, else you'll wake up in a bath full of ice, missing two kidneys and your credit cards.

The Ford "Escort". Stupid Fucking Name.

The Seat "Ibiza"

What I'm really looking for in a car, though, is the ability to party non-stop for six months of the year, sleep with anonymous drunk strangers and return to England with Herpes. My dream car should also be situated in the Balearic Islands, preferably somewhere west of Majorca.

The Seat "Ibiza". Knows how to party.

It is genuinely disturbing how little choice you have left available to you if you rule out cars on the (not unreasonable) basis of them having stupid names. Come on, Subaru, bring out the "FuckingAwesome". When's the new Vauxhall "KickAssAndFastAsFuck" due? Why, why, why won't Ford answer my letters about their "GrannyRapeKiddyKiller" concept car?

The decision I have come to, as I am sure many others will in due time, is that until automobile nomenclature takes a turn for the better, I'll just have to stick with my trusty old Toyota Picnic.

Oh, and by the way ladies, I fuck almost as well as I photoshop. Contact me via PeterOPhile@Gmail.com.

Reader Survey Of The W...Month: Stuff

2007-10-17T08:53:00.000Z

Free poles from Pollhost.com

Jim Fitzpatrick: Morons, Hail Your King

2007-09-28T09:36:00.000Z

"What it says is that drivers should remember they have to concentrate and they shouldn't be distracted either by passengers, by loud music, by reading a map, or using a mobile phone or by smoking.

If you're lighting up with one hand and have a fag in the other hand then obviously you've not got any hands on the wheel.

So I think what we're saying is concentration is very important in the prevention of accidents."

This man is a dunce, and would clearly be better able to serve the country as a footstool to help old age pensioners get tins of soup down from high places. He'd probably be really bad at it and manage to kill off a few of the old dears and do a bit for the pension crisis that Labour like to keep quiet about.

You have to admire his childlike perspective on the world though, where people need two hands to light a tab, presumably waving them around wildy like a demented double windmill until by some happy chance the flame and paper finally meet. I am also quite impressed to see he can at least count to two, which I assume is double that which the Scots cunt who claims to run the country now can manage.

Would you like to know what the actual biggest safety risk on British roads is? The fact that single braincelled organisms like this are able to hold a driving license, never mind a position of responsibility in road safety. Is he using both hands to change gears? Pressing the clutch pedal with a stick because he's run out of feet? The people should be told.

EDIT: I missed this link the first time round. Skip to about 25s in, and the ever giving Mr. Fitpatrick will advise you incorrectly on driving position and cigarette lighting process. Time to fuel up the elephant gun.

Rambling Diatribe 6: FW: FW: FW: RE: FW: RE:Paedophile's Rock!!!!

2007-09-26T15:49:00.000Z

Let's start simple, or at least, with the simple...

Well thanks for that fucking advice, it could be improved though. How about:

It has a nicer ring to it, I think. You do realise that email costs electricity, which is made by setting fire to trees, right? I've done some maths to help out...

Cost per email of the 13 word signature (assumes email sent during peak hours, not off peak when there is juice to spare anyway) (in standard tree-fucker units, CO2s) = 0.0005 CO2s.

Cost of all the people in the world who actually print emails, or have ever printed all their emails, printing all their emails = 0.0000 CO2s*.

That's right; you're fucking up the environment with your lovely little bit of patronising cock. I for one salute you. And by "salute you", I mean I just printed out a ream of emails.

Did I need to print them? No.
Did I need to piss all over them? No.
Did I need to set fire to them in the back garden? No.
Did I need to leave them out there for a week so that a family of hedgehogs camped underneath? No.
Did it make me feel pretty fucking good? Yes.
Did I eat the hedgehogs afterwards? Sort of.

There's a pretty specific level of intelligence required to be able to spot that printing emails would harm trees, yet fail to realise that nobody ever does that anyway. In IQs (a fairly scientific term when compared to CO2s), you score a 4. Which is the same as two old socks.

Coincidentally, this is also the maximum level that can allow one to hold down a tough job in today's modern office as a Forwarder. Before the invention of the internet by Al Gore (better known for inventing Global Warming), these people used to be sited in HR departments, toiling day and...well...until 5pm sharp at making sure no work actually got done, anywhere, ever. But no more. With the popularity of email for work as well as sending stupid fucking pictures of cats which can talk Pidgin for no obvious reason, these hideous, terrible drains on everything good in the world can branch out into preventing work being done...as Forwarders.

Can you CC up to ten people on an email, using only your fingers and a computer?
Do you have the kind of mindset that could abbreviate the word "await" to "a/w", having used it so frequently that writing five letters becomes tedious?
Could you insist on communications between people passing through you and only through you, no matter what the inconvenience to all concerned?
And would you then bravely not pass on these communications for hours on end, instead waiting for the optimum moment to send on vital information, finger hovering, poised above the send button like an eagle filled with idiocy instead of blood?
Can you copy and paste?
Would you be able to add "further information from X", or "further questions from Y" to a missive?
But swap the X and Y for names and/or company names?
Unless there are people called X and Y, in which case don't worry.
Are you a complete fucking waste of space, shit-city, clown-shoe cunt?

I'm guessing not. Most people can't hack it. But those who can, become Forwarders.

The nature of my work puts me into contact with these things on an all too regular basis. My favourite sport is to look down the email chain and pick out the end recipient of the emails and send directly to them, CCing the ForwardBot on the message. This sends them into a loop where they cannot work out who to Forward on to and their vaginas explode (both sexes of Forwarders have vaginas) in a blur of ice, snow and stupid.

There really can't be that many jobs in the world that could be made redundant by changing the To field on an email. Back to HR and fucking up Satan's payslips for you, I say.

*There are a number of people in existence** who would happily print all their emails. Oddly, they either don't know how to work email or they don't get any.
** For now, that is.

Shit

2007-09-12T08:54:00.000Z

I'm starting to get pretty sure that I shat on God's pint or spilled his girlfriend in a previous life.

> I'm taking a leak in the urinal at work. It's just before lunch.
> I hear an unusual clicking/rattling noise*.
> Concerned for the safety of Little Peter, my most prized possession, I look down.
> A button has fallen off my boxers into the urinal.
> It is caught in the plastic filter thing. 1-0 to God.
> It won't wash down, no matter how hard I try.
(And I nearly blew out my temple-veins, I was fighting so hard to avoid the inevitable).
> Ok, I have to go fishing. Let's do this before someone walks in.
> I think to finish off the flow first. 1-1 to Peter.
> I know you've wondered before. Porcelain is cold, even mere seconds into the post-piss phase.
> I remember to wash my hands. Yes, even the left one. 2-1 to Peter.
> I forget to fasten flies. For a few hours. I guess we'll call that a draw.

So how does it feel to be a marionette for an angry God? Not that bad, actually. Although I'd expected a lot more paedo-bumsex based on observations of my peers.

*Not that there are any usual clicking/rattling noises when I'm pissing, ladies.

With These They Offended Me

2007-08-30T15:29:00.000Z

People are always asking me what makes me so angry. Well I've taken notes of one particular incident and provided it here as an example. This happened last week. I find myself needing to get a birthday card posted to my lovely old (read: rich) grandmother.

My requirements for this simple mission are:
1) Buy and post one (1) birthday card.
2) Obtain twenty (20) cigarettes.

The reality is a lot like this:
16:30 Leave work a bit early to have card sent before last post. An hour is easily, more than enough time.
16:35 Arrive Morrisons.
16:40 Get to till with 1 birthday card and 2 bottles of red bull. Join queue at basket aisle.
16:41 Why the fuck is there a queue at this time of day? Five people wait patiently, one less so.
16:42 Why?
16:43 Why? Why?
16:44 Why? Why? Why? Only one old lady ahead of me in queue now.
16:45
- The old lady wants to buy Morissons vouchers. I fail to understand why as cash is normally accepted in store.
- The till worker has only £25 in coupons. Ms Oldington-Bitch has her heart set on £30 worth.
- £25 in coupons and a £5 note just won't do. A Supervisor is summoned by magical flashing sign.
- I'm guessing the coupons are a birthday present for her heroin addicted grandson. She doesn't want to give him cash, so he has to buy food with the vouchers. This strikes me as a little unfair of her.
- And shortsighted, I'd just buy booze and sell it to tramps.
- I pity the other poor old lady who gets mugged for his heroin money because of her selfishness.
- How much crack could he buy with a fiver anyway? Not enough for a birthday party, I'm betting.
- Odd that nobody ever burgles houses for cigarette money, isn't it?
16:50
- Ok. Walk away. Just forget the shopping and walk away.
- Walk away.
- Walk away. I'm going to count down from 10.
16:51
- The till monkey borrows some coupons from the till next to him to appease the old lady.
- Invisible supervisor suspected dead from over efficiency in back of store somewhere. Or he got into the pork pies.
16:52
- Old lady finally done with. She had three £10 notes with which to buy £30 worth of vouchers. Yet she took (and I timed it) nearly a whole minute to pay and fuck off.
16:52:30
- I am finally finished.
- Huge queue for cigarettes caused by people buying lottery tickets (Wednesday).
- Decide to go somewhere else before the fuckers start charging me rent.
16:57
- Arrive local Co-op. Only one person in front of me in this queue.
- Till monkey cannot serve alcohol without a supervisor. Supervisor summoned.
17:00
- Depart Co-op. Clean blood and teeth from shoes.
- Kids on bikes stream past either side of my car as I try to pull away. Heavy leaning on the horn is required to intimidate them out of the way. They do so with the good grace and style typical of the little shitbags found in this cuntry.
17:05
- Arrive home. Sign card, find address and seal envelope.
17:06-17:16
- I have no stamps.
- Find stamp attached to water bill (unsent). Remove stamp to affix to birthday card.
- Stamp is no longer sticky.
- Find pritt-stick.
- Realise pritt-stick is actually lip-balm fractionally before attempting to use it.
- Find super glue.
- Force open super glue and clear out the nozzle so glue can come out.
- Notice super glue is empty.
- Find selotape.
- Affix stamp to card in traditional manner.
17:16
- Drive to nearest post box.
17:20
- Post letter.
17:25 (or 24 for those who like to check everything adds up)
- Arrive home. Relax by shouting at the sky.
17:45
- I forgot to take the price sticker off the card.

So don't "cheer up, it might never happen" me. It fucking will, it probably already has, and, it might well again.

Don't think this is a one off, either. Once it took me an hour and a half to nip to McDonald's for dinner. And then I ended up cooking.

Attention Scientists: Stop Trying To Kill Peter

2007-08-17T10:02:00.000Z

Hello? This is child cancer calling... Wait, wrong number.
Something Fishy This Way Comes... Eat Chips Instead!
Smoke or Sight... Hot flushes or cancer? Arthritis or Strokes?
Stress Caused By Worrying About Diabetes Can Cause Diabetes, Stress

Fucking meddling scientists. You people have some level of responsibility you know. No, don't try to hide behind that "I just report my findings" banner, it won't stop a fucking super cosmic ray gun anyway. Come out with your hands up and throw that petri-dish on the fucking floor in front of you.

Good, now I've got your attention you guys need to shape up or slit your white as snow sun starved wrists to the fucking elbow - I haven't paid any mind to anything you've said since around 1982. I don't even believe your claims on global warming. Why not? Because the so-called scientific process has been destroyed by these half-assed studies and what seems to be systematic disingenuity on the part of Science. And also becaues global warming is clearly a load of old cock.

If I want to hear badly rationalised bullshit, wild speculation and fabricated sensationalism, I'll go to a fucking mosque. The job of science is to report facts and studies in an impartial, unemotional manner and to let the reader draw conclusions. And you're fucking failing. You're fucking up your own cause with any right-minded people who come across your latest "red wine cures AIDS but causes cancer of the cock" story. Go fucking hang yourselves in shame, you fucking harlequins. Wait, wasn't hanging linked to arthritis recently?

International Relations

2007-08-02T09:03:00.000Z

We had some translations done at the labour camp I laughingly call work a while back and I happened to notice the phrase for "memory buffer overrun" in french.

It is "dépassement de tampon mémoire".

I had a quick look and checked the German - rolling in at a hefty "Gedächtnispufferüberschuß"

This is why the french lose wars. You can't mount an organised guerilla defence against an invading force shouting out phrases about tampons.

Your only real hope is that some nice German storm troopers appear to back you up, screaming things like "Gedächtnispufferüberschuß. Schnell bitte!. Das Kapitan ist einen Reichstagfuhrer!", waving 20 foot long machine guns with 30 foot bayonets and bleeding from the eyes due to their death-laser implants overheating.

Don't get me wrong, I've no soft spot for the germans - you just have to respect the way their language reeks of badly concealed violence. Plotting the next world war would only take them three or four words. Orders to nip over the border into Poland and take up defensive positions around Warsaw's town square with 20mm howitzers would take mere seconds.

Be prepared, I say.

Come In Religion, Your Time Is Up

2007-07-16T09:04:00.000Z

I'm sick of Religion rearing its ugly head. This social-control bullshit been going on since the dawning of time (generally acknowledged to be around 5000 BC by religious nutcases) and shows no sign of stopping now that we have things like knowledge, empirical study and rational thought to explain why it rains and sometimes people get smashed to little pieces by earthquakes.

I've been on a long internet-trek (much better than a real-trek as I can do it from work and still get paid) in a quest to find a religion that isn't a complete load of fuckballs. Fuck, I nearly wrote "a failed quest" then and gave the game away. Fuck, double fuck, I really did give it away that time. Anyway, my findings are as follows:

Sikhism
The only major religion to have been founded by cows. Some believe a single cow came up with the scam, others believe that ten or eleven of them (The First Herd) were in it together.

This religion is unique in that it has no official day off and believes in reincarnation. Now, if you can't see why reincarnation is a stupid thing to believe in you'd best stop reading now. Frankly I'll welcome the sweet finality of death, especially if I can't spend Sunday in bed looking at midget porn. If I do end up reincarnated, I'll just kill myself - take that, God!

Judaism
Invented by the Germans (and thus inherently evil), Judaism puts much stock in eating unleavened bread and oppressing the people of Palestine whenever not being closely watched. They also have a penchant for being a little exclusive of those who do not follow their dogma, and plotting the death of said unbelievers. Wacky chaps indeed.

It should also be noted that Jews are widely held to have killed Jesus. Given that Jesus is unlikely to have ever existed, it seems unreasonable not to let that one slide.

Buddhism
Divine instructions are handed down via a big gold statue, telling acolytes to eat lots and build kick-ass temples all over the shop.

They also like to dress up in red dresses and beat the shit out of each other in a sort of worship circus, thus to discourage people from messing with them. As a result, they are often confused with East-side LA gangsters, with whom they actually share little in common. Except a love of crack, obviously.

Shinto
The most secretive religion in the world, little is known about these guys except that they like to hide in trees and shout at the sea. They also sometimes dress as pirates and bury treasure. Or is that pirates? I forget. Anyway, Shinto is a stupid (if secretive) religion.

Christianity
Knocked up by Jesus one afternoon when he was practising his lake-walking, this crap is responsible for such awesome events as the Crusades, in which Steven Seagal killed a shedload of evil Turks, thus preventing them from entering the 16th Century and a load of virgins stolen from Richard Lionheart's trailer.

It amusingly split when Queen Elizabeth got bored of being married and decided to turn her life to the noble pursuit of croquet instead - the evil Pope John XI would not allow this (croquet being an abomination to Jesus after a failed game on Lake Galilee), so she had him shot and formed her own splinter cell - the Anglican church.

This idea was then stolen by the Americans when they were cooking up their own version of Christianity, which calls heavily upon the idea of giving money to preachers who like touching little boys. Bizarrely (though understandably) the catholic church then sanctioned the touching of young boys and now too practice this...umm...practice.

Islam
Often billed as the religion of terrorists, in truth Islam is a highly misunderstood dogma, mainly because the devout followers keep blowing themselves up before getting a chance to fully explain their belief systems.

It is known, however, that Islam is actually a peaceful religion and most of their "terrorist" actions are actually intended as jokes, sadly the (Evil) West has yet to understand the subtleties of Muslim humour.

They also advocate chaining women to camels after wrapping them up in huge bin-bags known as Chadors. For which I salute them.

Scientology
Hahahaha, hahahahaha hahahaha...ahummm. Wait, that wasn't a joke? Christ, that's stupid.

Science
The young upstart of the world religions, often to be found chatting on a mobile phone about what it wants for dinner, Science provides few answers that other faiths at least take a wild swing at.

A transcript of an interview with Science would look something like this:

PO'P: Why are we here?
SCI: I don't fucking know.
PO'P: What's the meaning of life?
SCI: Fucked if I've got a clue.
PO'P: What happens when I die.
SCI: Fuck would you ask me? Now, have you got any spare change or not?

Peter O'Philistinism
I'm pretty sure that I'm actually a mild form of God.

Just do what I tell you and everything will be OK. You won't go to heaven or any of that shit, but at least then I won't be tempted to eat your eyes or smite your cat with a nail-gun. I might even buy you a beer if you worship me hard enough but don't count on it.

You can send me super magical happy prayers (and v!@gR@ ads) to ignore by emailing PeterOPhile@Gmail.com.

For now mortals, this is Peter O'Phile signing off. Stay safe and open minded (except about religion, which is all utter crap, obviously).

Where's Maddy?

2007-06-29T13:00:00.000Z

Holy fucking shit am I glad there's no hell, but I just couldn't fight it any longer.

Click the image for full sized family fun.

Now I've got nothing against the girl, however...

That website with the hideous fucking Bryan Adams song blasting out - will she even want to come back after seeing that? I'd rather be raised by wolves. And what are her parents doing going on some weird world tour and meeting the pope? Did Jesus tell them they were the Rolling Stones?

Sadly after this length of separation the mother won't normally accept her back anyhow, they'll be able to smell humans on her. I'm sorry, but it's a fact - Richard Attenborough told me.

Last time I checked, the fund had raised nearly a million quid. Given that the poor lass is inevitably going to be found in chunks down the back of some greasy Porto's sofa, it's probably time to start thinking about alternative uses.

Personally, I'd like to put forward the idea of dropping 100,000,000 1p coins onto Tony Blair from a hot air balloon. Fuck it, I'll even pay for the blimp. What can I say, I'm a philanthropist.

Sponsorship Stupor

2007-06-06T09:34:00.000Z

Now, I can appreciate an act of hardship or trial carried out in the name of charity as much as the next man. For example, I would gladly pay £10 per to throw bricks (without fear of legal reprisal) at any number of people. And if the money went to Cancer Research, Great Ormond's Street, or that one that parachutes grain into African countries so that they can kill each other fighting to keep the whole lot for themselves?

Well it seems like everybody wins, and that's always a good starting point.

I'd happily stump up a quid for every mile that Tony Blair managed to run off the end of Brighton Pier, I wouldn't even cap it at £50 like some of those tight fuckers do. If the dosh later goes to Amnesty International, or even Oxfam, what business is it of mine?

And yet the trend with these things, as is often the case, has moved towards more selfish tendencies. A few weeks ago I was asked to sponsor somebody to do a sky dive. But it wasn't a bloke in a wheelchair taking the plunge, or even a girl that cried and got nosebleeds from changing light bulbs, no. Just an ordinary sort. So the jump costs around £150 (it's in tandem, because apparently you need some sort of guidance on falling) and what's left of the sponsorship after that is deducted goes to charity...

Now hang on a fucking moment. This is just a way to go free free falling, isn't it?

Another one does a sponsored marathon every year. Not bad, unless you know that he does marathons all the fucking time anyway. The poor halfwit even jogs about in his spare time (there should really be a charity to help people like him). This is like me asking for a tenner to sit on my arse and watch TV with a hand down my pants. Or Manson charging £20 a go to pop off hitch-hiker heads. You can stick your sponsored dish washes up your fucking arses, you chancer cunts.

And yet, when I put up a note about my "Sponsored Horse Holocaust" on the company noticeboard, I didn't make a fucking penny. Of course, like the stalwart type that I am I still did it, notching up 21 confirmed kills before the fuzz turned up and I had to create an impromptu hideout from horse intestines, ribs and brains (actually, in the interests of honesty the police didn't turn up. I was just tired from all the equine extermination and needed a nap).

Of course, you could easily put my failure down to poor punctuation. But it's the same story with my "Sponsored Licking Of Marissa Miller's Nipples (By Me)" idea (all in aid of Breakthrough). There were a few complaints resulting from the "all staff" email, apparently I'm a misogynist now. To be frank, I can't see how my idea could be any further from misogyny, but the restraining order makes one thing clear - Barnardo's are going without their Christmas turkey this year.

You can try to tell me that the Sky Diving stunt still made a few quid to keep kids in shoes, so it's all Ok. You can try to tell me that Captain RunRun isn't pulling a swift one and that as long as the charity involved makes a bit of money everything's great.

But you know what? It isn't.

In (My) Briefs

2007-05-04T09:22:00.002Z

A man drove down my road yesterday repeating "Vote Labour, vote Labour, vote Labour"in a monotonous voice through two megaphones taped to the top of his car...Yeah, that's going to work.

If only he'd been on the next road, he could have swung by the mental institute for the terminally suggestible and really won a few Xes...except that they're all chained to their beds to avoid clogging up phone lines during advert breaks, obviously.

The next person I hear use the word "Crackberry" is going to be hacked up into pineapple sized chunks and used to stuff the human pillow I'm making for myself. Hey, we all have our addictions, right?

Have you ever listened to Chesney Hawkes and felt the sheer cosmic bliss of realising that he really is the one and only? It's that kind of moment that keeps me working so hard on my anti-clone campaigns.

And whilst we're on the subject of musical abortions which should have been, do you think Prince has to buy special keyboards so that he can type his own name, or does he just sign his correspondence as "cunt" and assume people will guess it's him?

I've been spending a little time on MySpace lately. I love the way you can sort potential love-matches by...distance:
"Alcoholic reprobate mollusc with commitment, hygiene issues seeks similar to spend eternity with. Must be unwilling to travel, fear the outside and live within five mile radius. No gingers or fatties."

I did get this one chick talking dirty to me though:
"I am a sociology student undertaking a theoretical consideration of the impact that social networking websites, like Myspace, can incur on identity. The proceeding pages encompass an essay discussing the means of profile customisation, blogging and connective networking that Myspace accommodates (as indicatively displayed on this page) and how they may facilitate the formation of an individual and group identity.Furthermore, the implications of such virtual identities will be identified in relation to a wider social context and a multiplicity of new media theses. This Myspace page has been created to provide an introductory visualisation of the template and tools that are subsequently discussed in the essay. Moreover, it emphasises the notion of the malleability of Myspace pages, that alludes to social networking sites constituting a prominent new form of globally accessible media production."

Fuck knows what she was on about, but I could tell by the way she misspelt "emphasizes" that she was gagging for it, so I sent her an amusing picture of two horses fucking...a camel. No response, I guess her head had already exploded due to the heavy testosterone musk leaking out of my earlier emails. Or the letter bomb I sent her.

I love that because Americans can't spell, nobody in this country uses Zs any more. Bad news for those people who look after animals in captivity, soon we'll be too embarrassed to give them job titles and thus unable to employ them. I guess it's good news for the animals though, swings and roundabouts et cetera.

A Herd Of Bloggers Comes Sweeping Over The Horizon

2007-04-17T15:05:00.000Z

This is another old post, I'm still busy. I have important things that need scratching, ok?

Honestly - what the fuck is the deal with this bullshit I keep seeing on blogs? The fucking phases of the moon? What, do you really feel a sense of uniqueness and identity that links you to the fucking moon? A connection so unique that only a wide range of shitty internet sites can provide an image of it for you?

And the weather today - what the fuck? I assume that's the weather where you are but who could possibly care? You? You already know what the weather's like. For fuck's sake. Why not the weather on the moon, kill two birds with one cliché.

If you feel the need to note down your mood, then you aren't a good enough writer to achieve anything except tedia (surprising how many blogs over-reach that fucking goal). Honestly, if the average perceptive reader can't spot your fucking state of mind when you write what is effectively a journal entry, either give up or write the pedestrian babbling you call thoughts down on paper. Or the back of your hand, preferably with bleach.

Why does everyone claim to be happy all the time, anyway? You aren't going to go to heaven, there isn't one. You aren't going to be a fucking astronaut (apologies if Louis Armstrong or someone similar is reading this), you aren't even going to clean an astronaut's toilet (apologies if Louis Armstrong's mum or Latino maid is reading this)

You've got around 600'000 hours on this planet and then your dead face is being eaten off by your 11 fucking cats. Enjoy what there is to enjoy by all means but why try to pretend that every second of your life is the high point of the fucking century, that's just dishonest, like those so-called moon landings. Fucking Astros.

In summary I propose the suicide of everyone on this planet immediately and let's hope that something better evolves from our decaying juices. I'll go last to make sure that everyone does their duty.

Do You Have The Foggiest?

2007-03-23T08:21:00.000Z

Another post lost by Blogger2. Trying to escape from big jar of treacle, will update properly later.

Driving up the M1 last weekend, I lit a cigarette and started enjoying a "relaxing" smoke. Three cars around me instantly put on their fog lights, whilst one kind soul pulled up to a distance of three inches from my rear bumper and flashed constantly for five minutes to warn me of the danger I was in - I had forgotten to put my fog lights on.

The reason for this strange reaction? The British inability to distinguish fog from mist, cloud, cigarette smoke and even dust. The slightest reduction in visibility seems to invoke counter logic of the most stunning degree:

Click for larger image in new window

Let's check the highway code to see if it suggests this strange behaviour. It's at http://www.highwaycode.gov.uk. Rules 201 and 211 are the most applicable, so I'll quote (parts of) them here:

201
...when visibility is seriously reduced, generally when you cannot see for more than 100 metres (328 feet)...

211
You must not use front or rear fog lights unless visibility is seriously reduced...as they dazzle other road users and can obscure your brake lights. You MUST switch them off when visibility improves.

Notice how rule 201 defines the meaning of the phrase "seriously reduced". Rule 211 then explains what to do in this situation. Ignoring the fact that rules 202 - 210 have nothing to do with visibility or fog lights and thus cloud the issue somewhat, congratulations to the Department for Transport for removing any possible confusion here. Except of course the confusion of having 10 unrelated rules between the linked topics, which (if we didn't decide to ignore it) was pretty fucking dumb, Mr. DFT.

I'll summarise for the retardedly stupid:

If it's raining, don't put on your fog lights. It blinds other drivers.
If it's misty, don't put on your fog lights. It blinds other drivers.
If you can see a cloud, don't put on your fog lights. It blinds other drivers.
If it's foggy (which means that you can see less than 100 metres), you may switch on fog lights.

Note that the phrase "which means that you can see less than 100 metres" is deliberately vague - this reduction in visibility could be caused by weather, fire, sunlight in your eyes, or even not having a clean windscreen. Well, the first three anyway. You (may) get the idea.

When the situation which caused you to switch on your fog lights clears, switch them off. Switch them off, you stupid fucking cock. OFF. Don't leave them on for another 50 miles, just to be on the safe side. The cars behind you can now see only one thing - your fucking fog lights.

There could be two thousand cars, piled atop each other in an inferno of death and cleansing fire seconds down the road in front of you and no one behind you would be any the wiser. To make this worse, in the unlikely event that someone of your cognitive capacity spots and recognises this danger, we can't even see your brake lights. I hope you choke on your Werther's fucking Original and are found dead on the hard shoulder. With your hand down your pants and Michael Jackson's "Thriller" in the CD player. Try explaining that one to God, you fucking pervert.

The Cock Parade Continues

2007-03-14T17:31:00.000Z

I'm in another hell-hole toilet backwater country and the rats that carry the internet to my computer are having a slow day, so don't expect much from me. However, this story made me laugh.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/north_east/6450039.stm

Apparently second hand smoke is much worse for your health than having glasses thrown at you. Who would have thought it?

WWJD

2007-02-27T16:18:00.000Z

I decided not to read my emails for a week and I've obviously been going through too many today, because I just saw a car with the registration V142 GRA and got stuck wondering why it wasn't attached to a Porsche Boxster or a Corvette and being driven by an old guy.

One email stood out, sent from a contact lurking deep within the bowels of England's home-grown fundies. It seems that I skimmed the Bible, because I obviously missed the elventh commandment:
"Though shalt taketh a pop the Muzzies whenever though getteth das chance."

===================================================================

Subject: Mosque for London Olympics

Dear All,

Take a second to cast your vote in the Evening Standard online poll
to determine public opinion about whether a mega mosque should be
build for the Olympics.

The vote so far is 62% in favour. It looks like the Muslim
community is casting its vote in droves, and as usual the Christians
are burying their head in the sand.

====================================================================

Yeah, I have a few comments here.

Take a second to cast your vote
No.

In the Evening Standard online poll
The Evening Standard? I thought that cunt Blair ran the country. This is even worse than I imagined. And people are taking online polls seriously now? I always figured they were intended as jokes.

whether a mega mosque should be build for the Olympics
It's spelt built. I bet you were reading up on Creationism during English lessons, weren't you?

It looks like the Muslim community is casting its vote in droves
The correct collective noun for "Muslim community" is Lalalalalalas, you thick fuck. Also, the sentence doesn't scan. Did you skip Bible School altogether?

and as usual the Christians are burying their head in the sand
That's one way to turn the other cheek, although it seems to still allow you to talk. By the way, many Christians have many heads, a single Christian (in this case, you) is a dick head. If only you'd spent less time being buggered by Father O'Phile (no relation) at Bible Camp...

I believe that God put Christians on this Earth to piss off the sane people. I believe that the religion of peace and love was founded purely to spread bile and venom across the world. I believe that if Jesus had been alive, he would have either voted in favour of a mosque being built, or not given a fuck either way (my personal leanings).

The only building Jesus would have voted against would surely be a Synagogue, unless he's forgotten about that whole crucifixion thing by now. And even then, he could just smite the shit out of it once it was built, which would be much cooler.

So, Christians. I suggest you vote for the mosque then pray for some hardcore smiting on those Godless fuckers. After all, WWJD?

More Fun With Referers 2

2007-02-21T09:41:00.000Z

There really are some worrying people out there. And I thought I was sanity-challenged.

"why are russian girls asking for my bank details"
Son, this is capitalism at its finest. Ship her over, break down her iron curtain and then report her to immigration. Remember to wear four condoms because all sovs have filthy vaginae from all that chernobyl fall-out which will make Mr Zing-Wang fall off, or glow green or other weird shit like that.

"warning monkey faeces funny"
That really makes no sense at all. Who are you trying to warn? And how does that link to me? Is this some sort of a sting? Who are you?

"sexual fucking with scat"
Anyone surprised that this guy was German? Nope? Me neither. I am a little stunned to find a Kraut who is aware a kind of fucking that doesn't involve scat exists though.

"cheeseburger joker"
I'm starting to think that this is one person, hell-bent on making me lose the plot. So far he has attacked my mind from the following locations.

UK
US
Canada
Sweden
Singapore
Australia
Colombia
Israel
Malaysia

It's not funny anymore, you fucking freak. Just stop.

My final thoughts on this matter.

I remember a time when a Panini was a sticker. I remember that the tabloids welcomed Jade Goody as a True Brit and one of ours. I remember a time when Michael Jackson was the King Of Pop rather than a serial child molesting lunatic mutant and when George Michael had to dodge flying knickers instead of boxers when he was performing.

But I don't recall a time when most people weren't fucktards who would be better used as rocket fuel to get me the hell off this fucking planet. So I should probably stop being surprised by these cockgnomists.

Things 1

2007-02-20T09:42:00.000Z

PO'P NOTE: blah blah blah new blogger blah cunt blah blah. I'm not sure how many more of these I can be bothered to do and there's more pressing matters to hand.

Things People Hate But Shouldn't 1.

Hatred is a beautiful thing, anger the most truthful of emotions (there are those who will claim it is love. I wish them and their fucking lentils all the best together).

However, wasted ire is an offence to everything I hold dear. The outpourings of the common man, devoid of forethought, simply snarling at those who he has been told to nothing more than a chained rotweiller barking in the night.

People get it wrong on an astoundingly regular basis. This series will try to right some of these wrongs and get us all back on track. So let's get the ball rolling with...

Mobile Phones Whilst Driving

The government and police decided to nanny us along a little and ban this, the prelude to which involved convincing the general public that it was a huge danger to anyone within 20 miles of the ignorant bastard doing this. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

I hear people moan about this and I shudder inside. Have these people never thought about the issue? Is driving whilst on the phone dangerous? Yes. Dangerous enough to become the vehicular equivalent of paedophilia? Car Kiddy Fiddling? No.

I was listening to Radio 4 a few days ago when I went into a deep trance during This Sceptered Isle. When I came to, I had driven into a bus-stop full of children, the noise I had been dimly aware of was their little bodies bouncing off my bodywork (quite badly dented as it happens). The police claimed I had been driving on the pavement for 53 miles and that I didn't even have the radio on. I guess that's an issue for the courts to decide.

I've dropped a lit cigarette on the back-seat of my car before. Try telling me that mobile phones are a dangerous distraction and I'll wave some shiny tin-foil in front of you before scouring your pockets for change whilst you stand, captured in childlike (read retarded) wonder.

I've even had arguing kids in there, shouting and cunting around (as kids will until you teach them who's boss by yanking on the handbrake and bouncing through a field at 90mph). Thank fuck I didn't get a call on my mobile at that point, otherwise I would have been putting them and myself at a frankly insane level of risk.

A highly valid thing to bitch about would be mobile phones - what a fucking abomination, but don't worry anyway - these mobile users will all be dead of head-canceritis sufferers within the next four days anyway. Or will they?

Mobile Phone Brain Bubbles

Let me start this complicated scientific explanation by stating that...bollocks. You dimwitted fuckers! How the fucking shit do you think a mobile phone is going to cook your head, when a microwave (bit bigger, isn't it) can't even cook your fucking dinner? Have you ever microwaved a tin of soup? Have you ever microwaved anything? Try it with a phone then, but I'd use it to call out for a curry first else you'll end up chewing your lips off.

You fucking idiots. I hope all those who hold their phones away from their heads and stick those fucking retarded signal improving jobbies on get beheaded by a passing Muslim. That'll fucking learn them to think before they panic. By all rights, most of Britain should have died of CJD ten years ago, Global Warming two years ago and Bird Flu last week. Strange that they didn't, isn't it?

Of course the hideous idea of CJD not being utter bullshit does occur. Can you imagine a country left with only lentil eaters and sandal-wearers left to rebuild it? Holy fuck, it would be bad enough to make me take a swim off Blackpool beach, where the water (as everyone knows) is composed entirely of raw sewage. Hmmm, hang on a minute...

Pikey At The Gates

2007-02-12T11:28:00.000Z

P'OP NOTE: I upgraded to the new version of Blogger and now half of my old posts have turned into...long story short, this is an old post reviewed because Blogger is shit.

An open letter to the stupid ratshit cunt of a man that keeps kicking in my flat door and stealing useless dead letter junk mail from the post-boxes:

Dear Sir / Madam / Shitbag Pikey Fuckhole,

I must apologise for being forced to break the criminal genius / victim silence that traditionally exists in these situations, however I feel you have left me little recourse.

First, let me start by saying that I have enjoyed our brief acquaintance immensely. You have been the source of great amusement to myself and my flatmate over such recent break-ins as "Retard Pikey Screws Up Again" and "Inbreeding Prevents Learned Behaviour", but I feel the time has come to explain a few things.

You see, Shitrape, and I must apologise if Shitrape isn't your given name, but we do have yet to be formally introduced, so please feel free to substitute Shitrape with whatever name you wish. In fact, by all means write your full name and address on the bottom of this sheet of paper if you want to improve the accuracy of my future communication. However, I digress...

You see, Shitrape, in our country, post is traditionally delivered mid-morning. Your recent liasons with our front door have happened, exclusively, in that period we call "night". Whilst an amusing social comment on the state of our Royal Mail, your behaviour is at least borderline retarded. The mail has fucking gone, Einsteinique.

Frankly, I cannot imagine what you hope to achieve by stealing mail which is no longer present. Do you consider yourself an artist, making a bold statement about the duality of man? If so, please carry out your work elsewhere as you are now becoming tiresome and I do not care for art. Ask that fucking bitch Dali if you don't believe me.

If of course, your behaviour is a failed attempt at theft, then I must speak clearly. You are what can only be considered a Pikey, and an above (or below) averagely stupid Pikey at that. My dislike of your kind is measurable only by the most talented criminal psychologist. When this is added to my pathological distaste for stupidity, which you show what can only be described as a surfeit of, you really are in uncharted waters with the kind of death I wish you. I truly hope to see you roasted to death over rat and bile filled petrol, whilst I throw pieces of your dead children at you as quickly as the rabid dog can excrete them.

However, this is unlikely to occur naturally, or be of much appeal to you, so I offer you the following compromise: You stop being such a fucktard and stop trying to steal post which no one else wants. In return, I will make no further attempts to hunt you down and bring you to my special kind of "justice".

If you feel you cannot live with this offer, please indicate as such by breaking in one further time. I must warn you however, that at some point I will be waiting. Waiting with a mobile phone to call the police. Sorry, I jest.
Waiting with a Super Soaker filled with acid and a carving knife. Waiting with a Samurai sword. Waiting with a pool cue. Well, I'll spare the details for a later communiqué, but I'm sure you get the idea.

Actually, you won't get the idea. You are a retarded little shit of a man who is probably only coming here to get a rest from fucking the shit out of your sister who is also your pet rabbit, so I'll say this in words you'll understand some of:

Stay the fuck away from this fucking flat otherwise I am going to beat the shit out of you. You are a stupid, cock loving, dipshit who should stick to stealing from me the traditional way, via the DSS. Don't try to expand your horizons to crime as you are clearly not up to the task. Please die, or otherwise remove yourself from our once great gene-pool.

Yours,
Peter O'Phile

PO'P NOTE: Left in Peter O'Phile's post-box recently.

Hit Women, For Fun And Profit

2007-02-09T11:26:00.000Z

P'OP NOTE: I upgraded to the new version of Blogger and now half of my old posts have turned into drafts. Seriously, the fucking dicks can't even get that right. And the spelling checker removes all the paragraphs for some reason (not that I ever spell anything wrong in the first place). Someone should be shot in the fucking eye for this travesty. Anyway, I'll try and repost the old shit a bit at a time until everything's back to normal. Or maybe I'll just delete it and fuck you all, who knows. Fuck.

Recent events have left me considering (not for the first time) our approach to physical violence against women. The sweeping "No, don't do it" view that our society tends to hold is clearly wrong. By clearly, I mean that I'll explain why later but if you really need to have this simple precept explained to you, I'd quite like to beat you with an Iron (or even Steel) bar.

So would a blanket "Yes, do it and use a Steel bar" approach be more appropriate? Yes. Clearly.

Reasons not to hit women:
They are the weaker sex.

Reasons not to hit anyone:
Violence is wrong.

Women are the weaker sex? I fucking guarantee that most women are not weaker than me. I'm 5'11" and 9 stone 5. I last went to a gym two years ago and all I did then was drink in the bar for six hours and stare at the over-muscled women whilst searching for things I had earlier hidden in my pockets.

Frankly, Stephen Hawking could kick my ass, and without any need to reverse time or meddle with entropy too. I'm talking a ten round, Queensbury Rules affair. He wouldn't even break into a sweat.

Violence is wrong? No it's not. I'm not even going to explain why that is fucking stupid. Anyone who says violence is wrong should be beaten around the ass for two hours until they die of ass-trauma. Then at their funeral, it should be mentioned that they have a closed coffin because they died of ass-trauma and everybody there should spit on their ashes. Violence is wrong? Pricks.

So why should people not fight women? As self-defence, the argument against hitting women is indefensible. If a woman chooses to take matters to a physical level, not hitting her back would be a sexist slur against her. Even not hitting her back as hard as possible (e.g. restraining her in a moderate fashion) would be a bigoted, vicious, non-attack on her sexual identity and could end up with you in prison.

Unprovoked violence is a more tricky one to prove unless you aren't a complete fucking retard. We've all laughed our lungs up at the sight of some guy being hit with a broken bottle for no reason, so it extends that adding women to this equation doubles the amount of humour in the world. Comic Relief proves year in, year out, that comedy saves ill and dying children, so doubling the amount of humour in the world is a great thing. In fact, if you don't randomly hit women then you are effectively killing African children and that makes you a racist. You evil little fuck.

So in conclusion, either hit women or go to Hell and burn for your evil, petty, hate crimes, and next time someone suggests hitting things with an Iron bar, mention that perhaps they should use Steel instead of being a complete fucking sheep. I'm so sick of people getting hit around the head with Iron bars. Dumb clichéd motherfuckers.

VD, Not For Me.

2007-02-07T10:07:00.000Z

http://www.meish.org/vd

Whilst I agree with the sentiment entirely, the execution is more laboured than the elephant man's mother and nothing like as funny as there was potential for. Look at this one, for example:

What would have been wrong with the word "CUNT" written in big letters? You tried too hard, Meish, and you dropped the fucking ball. Or even "CUNTY CUNT" - simple, yet beautiful.

I suspect the writer suffers from a terrible sexual tension and will probably go on to be a serial rapist. Most likely once a year, on Valentine's Day, she (assumption) will join the hallowed ranks of the murder/rapist. But of course, that is just speculation.

PS, those fucking e-card things people use to avoid spending any money propping up the Royal Mail are for women and communists only.

PPS, did you know that St. Valentine was killed in a knife fight with a poodle when trying to win back the love of his life? Now there's romance.

Whose House? The Bank's House! (Part 2)

2007-02-05T17:04:00.000Z

Well, where were we? Oh yes, I remember. Bananas: how gay is it gay to eat one? No wait, that's not right...

You've picked the house of your dreams and stolen enough money to buy it. Now brace yourself for some hideous negotiations with the seller that neither of you can really be bothered with. Would just putting the house on the market at the price you want to get for it be such a difficult concept? One estate agent told me specifically to knock 10% off the asking price...because they'd added the same* amount when they put the place on the market.

Yeah...there's something not quite right with that little system you've got there, Tom. Why don't we all stop fucking around, see if we can't get on with our lives instead of playing your little bid-up-bid-down game? You'll even save money on calculators, or evil abacuses, whatever it is you things use. Here's a little sum I did earlier. A £500 difference from £200'000? Not a percentage to be arguing over.

Joining the queue for me to line up against the wall come the time of reckoning are the mortgage bastards. I'm paying you, roughly, the price of the house to lend me some money. Ok, I can deal with that. Just about.

Would I like to pay the £750 application fee now, or later? Let's see, how about you pay the fucking fee out of the huge amount of cash you'll be making out of me? Don't fancy that? Well me neither, Howard.

I told the phone robot that I wouldn't pay if the application wasn't successful.

"Oh no, the fee is only payable if the application goes through ok."

It's not an "application fee" then, is it? It's more of a "bullshit tacked on because everybody does it so we can get away with it fee". Let's be honest here, just call it a "Customer Rape Charge". Or a "We Fucking Hate You, You Scrounging Loser Bastard Correction".

Now, who else can make this process any more hellish? There can't be many badly fitting pieces of jigsaw left, surely?

Well, just to round things off, we have the current occupiers, who are determined to piss me off to the point that I nail-bomb my own house while they sleep in it.

Do I want to buy the oven for £150. Now, I don't tend to notice much in these respects, but here's a quick summary:

Overall kitchen colour scheme and contents - white**.
Overall cooker colour scheme - black.

Price of a brand new equivalent cooker (in white or camp stainless steel) - £150.

I don't want the cooker. Do I want to buy the curtains? Well, unless you've bought exactly the same house somewhere else, they aren't going to fit, you fucking cretins. Why don't you act like sane people and leave the curtains where they are? And keep your greedy eyes off those floorboards while you're ripping up bits of lino to glue back together in the kitchen at your lovely new place.

My suggestion to enquire if they were leaving the kitchen sink or if I'd need to buy it got vetoed. With hindsight, it's for the best because it would probably backfire. Fortunately I have their forwarding address and a shedload of sulphuric acid (don't ask) sitting around just waiting for the right moment.

Oh, and if they don't take the cooker with them, I'll try and charge them for its disposal. It's the small victories that keep me from hating humans.

*Cynical bastards like myself would suspect "more".
**The actual colour is probably known as "pale inca sunrise", "felatio cream", "mottled war criminal hiding out in argentina's socks", or something like that in reality, but to my "uneducated" eyes, it's white.

Whose House? The Bank's House! (Part 1)

2007-01-31T16:37:00.000Z

I'm buying a house, which means I have to deal with that dreaded sub-species of humanity, The Lawyer. I think this one worked out my stance (that I didn't like her and knew that the 20 minute "interview" was a waste of my time, designed purely to justify their ridiculous fees) pretty quickly, given my refusal to say a single word the entire time I was there. Women can be so sensitive sometimes.

It was clearly a pisstake though. Why the fuck do I need to prove my identity to buy a house? Are there people going round buying properties under false names, respraying the garage doors and selling the rest off for parts? I don't fucking think so.

Where do they think these imaginary evil fraudsters are hiding, anyway? You should probably know where they fucking live, since you conveyed them there.

So I stole a pencil. It's the little victories that keep us human. Except for lawyers, who aren't, of course.

Why the fuck do we need lawyers to buy a house anyway? It's a pretty simple transaction, all in all. I give someone a shitload of money and they stop living in the building so that I can move in (unless they're blonde hotties who like to wander around naked and don't mind the smell of marlboro reds and decay, in which case they can stay).

I'm at a loss as to what a lawyer adds to this process. Do they stop me from getting 419ed? I know the house exists, I went to the effort of looking at it. It's not in Kenya, made of cheese, or (currently) on fire, and I'm not going to pay for it via Western Union.

Hello, Mrs Lawyer? You can fuck off, this is none of your business. And your pencils are substandard, too.

I am convinced that the whole house buying process is designed, specifically and exclusively, to piss me off.

First of all you have to been shown around the property by some mindless fucking estate agent.

"...and this is the master bedroom."
"well shit my piles, Tom. I thought it was a dinosaur."

What's with the estate agent in those horrible BT adverts with that old boiler and the guy who used to be the funny one in "My Family" anyway? Is he supposed to talk like a broken robot, or was he drunk that day? I don't get it at all.

"beep...I...thought...that...this...would...make...a...very...nice...nursery...end transmission."
"wait, that's a toilet. Looks like I could do this job better than you...if only I didn't have a soul."

*** Part 2 follows soon ***

Warning: Paris Hilton Is Not "Hot". Yet.

2007-01-29T14:29:00.000Z

It may come as a surprise, given the plausible reports in the media and the fact that you can spend $39.95 a month subscribing to ParisExposed.com, but it needs to be said. The Paris Hilton hotel is better looking and more interesting to listen to than that melted skeleton thing that somehow keeps getting onto the news and into the internet. And I mean the nasty, run down Arc De Triomphe one, not that shiny new one, too.

Seriously, let's take a look at some pictures...

Desperate Dan square-jaw meets bleached bones in the desert cleavage meet constipated weasel "slutty" eyelids meet Concorde nose meets (hopefully) a 100mph out of control HGV. And eyes are windows to the soul? Those look like one-way glass to me.

Yeah, I don't really need to say anything more. This is just another of those Jade Goody type things that we would be wiser to ignore without comment in future. Either the whole phenomena is one big "you've been framed" style stunt against her, or it's the universe pulling one on all of us. Have a quick check under your bed for Cosmic Jeremy Beadles...Nope, I guess the joke must be her...

Well let's call an end to it before I have to swap her coke for ground up glass and Polonium, or do something I'll regret. Grab that beard in your withered hand and yank it off, fire up the canned laughter and let it slip that her existence was a big joke all along. Ship her back to hell, roll out some worthwhile wank-fodder and let's move on.

I've never wanted to club something so much in my whole life, and I've always been a big fan of clubbing. I'm off to beat the shit out of my lunch, toodles!

The Trees Will Inherit Us All

2007-01-22T17:42:00.000Z

This carbon neutral fad has me worried for a couple of reasons. If you've managed to avoid this dimwit shitfestivity, then stop reading now. It'll just piss you off to go any further. Skip to the bottom of the last post, there's a nice picture of a cat to enjoy instead.

Basically, the Ecodunces claim that if you drive you should plant trees and thus save the planet from falling to bits or something. Which is more or less science, a big step for those fuckers in itself.

However, look a bit closer. I know, using facts and maths and things like that, that my car puts out around 3kg of carbon per year, fixed into an aesthetically pleasing arrangement something like this:

A happy little CO2 molecule, sworn enemy of the Greens

For reasons I will never grasp this is wrong of me, so I have to buy a tree to gobble up the nasty little CO2 bugs coming out the back of my low-slung kiddy-killer. Or actually, as the boffins who dropped out of Loughborough University to work for Greenpeace tell me, three trees.

My suspicions were first aroused by the fact that a tree is not really accepted as an SI unit of environmental badness. The SI unit of planet carnage is well known to be the Fudgeguess. So this leaves us in an uncertain area. Do I have to buy a weeping willow, because I really hate those arrogant fuckers? Would one 30'000 foot mega-pine do me for life? What if it accidentally gets planted in the rainforest and McDonalds dig it up to feed genetically modified headless cows five seconds later? It makes no sense, no sense at all.

But this is the least of the issues. You see, the Huggers don't want you to know this, but trees are mankind's sworn enemy (along with the CO2s of course. Can you see a vindictive streak yet?).

Just take a look at last week. Here are some pictures that might help...

At every opportunity, they are leaping from their ample roots onto buildings, cars and people. They fall in front of trains and somehow brought London's underground to a complete standstill last Friday. I know, because it took me six fucking hours to get home. I assume there is some sort of cover-up going on with respect to the underground trees, so fuck only knows what they're up to in our sewers*.

In storms they guide electricity down onto our humble heads, tempting us with shelter then frying us like cockroaches. Their roots push up paving slabs and kill grannies who can't see far enough ahead to avoid the cracks. They "catch" on fire, sweep down and kill entire villages. In the dark they look a bit like big skeletons. They shed their leaves for three months of each year and don't die, leaving us to skid into their hefty bases on the carefully made mulch. And we're feeding innocent CO2s to the bastards!

And what do they do for us? What have The Rooters ever done for us? You can print The Daily Mail on one, if you haven't heard of the internet**. You can make a pretty poor fire if you don't have gas central heating. Keanu Reeves' parents were trees. You can make shoes, a fairly good semi-conductor and goat's cheese with a properly prepared tree.

No wait, the list ended a sentence earlier back there. Paper, fire and The Matrix, that's it.

Fuck the trees, I say. Let us worship the noble woodpecker and load up the biological cannon with Dutch Elm Disease. Warm up your chainsaws and reclaim our once great nation, before it's too late.

*When you get a branch jabbed right up your fundamentals whilst you're taking a shit, remember that I warned you of this day.
**As per most Daily Mail readers.

Looking Forward

2007-01-12T11:24:00.000Z

My new year's resolutions:

1) Search for "my new years resolutions" on Google and kill every single blogger I find.
B) I don't know...uh...be more sarcastic.
$) I'm really struggling now...maybe...electrocute more animals?
4) Nah, fuck it. I'm pretty fucking perfect already.
1) Swear more, especially at children.

In a departure from my normal format, I would like to highlight a few things that I like. It'll be difficult for me, but here goes...

1) Family Guy, Season 5.

Seriously. The funniest thing to come out of America since the civil war. Truly fucking awesome.

11) Cancer

If there's a cheaper or funnier shot, I don't wanna know about it. That picture even looks like a bit like a pair of nuts, for fuck's sake.

K-aa) Knock Airport

Oh fuck. No, I got mixed up. I don't like Knock Airport, I fucking hate it. I was stuck there before Christmas in the fog. Basically, some one-toothed fucking retard built this fucking place with his bare-hands and a spade, right on top of the biggest hill he could find (presumably because planes fly high and he wanted to help out). So it got a little misty, and the place looked more like this:

That place was fucking closed. For a week. In the end they sent me on a four hour coach ride to Belfast, where electricity has been introduced and therefore planes can land using ILS.

Just look at that fucking place. The planes turn round in that big circle, because the bacteria that shat out the fucking runway didn't think to include taxiways in his grand plan. This shouldn't matter of course, because nobody sane would ever land there.

They even charge you a €10 fee to leave the fucking place, presumably because the cunt that put the departures shed up forgot to install any radiators. All the straggly, suicidal looking bushes were frozen solid, and not a single fucking heater in sight. Steer clear, unless you're flying a nuclear bomb, in which case I thank you.

Z,7) Odd Christmas Presents

Whilst I was gearing up to swim the Irish Sea, Mrs O'Phile's dad decided to kark it (see 2). It was certainly a strange christmas present from a loving and omnipotent God, but I hear it's the thought that counts.

Next time someone tries to tell me about their man in the sky bullshit religion, I'm going to tie them to a horse and drag them by their eyelashes for a mile down "Reality Road" (it's actually the A52, don't tell anyone).
Let's see how their invisible friend helps them out in that fucking situation. Cunts, the lot of them.

So yeah, Family Guy season 5. Wooooo!

2006: Just Another Year Of The Rat

2007-01-03T17:32:00.000Z

Now don't get me wrong, I support the death penalty if applied indiscriminately to a large sample of humanity. There's way too many fucking people here, and a little human(e) slaughtering would go down like a gin and tonic smoothie first thing in the morning.

But at the same time I can recognise a kangaroo court with my head stuffed inside a koala's pouch, and here we have a prime example. So they held their quaint little foreign language pantomime, strung a man up, tormented him and then pulled the plug as he started to pray (to whatever fictional entity doesn't mind attempted genocide, I assume), all "secretly" recorded on a camera-phone for our viewing delight.

Don't worry though, if Uncle Tony tells you someone's a bad guy, you can be damn sure Uncle Tony will get his man swinging. Switch back to Channel 4, Celebrity Big Brother's on in 10. Uncle Tony's busy picking a new big brown bad man for us all to worry about, leave him be for a couple of days.

Justice? Justice was out dogging that day, just like she was when Uncle Tony's plane got hit by lightning but didn't explode and fall to the ground in a thousand swastika-shaped burning pieces.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/vote_2005/frontpage/4490809.stm

And she was taking a shit on a sleeping tramp when Dubya was absent from Dick Cheney's (admirable) shooting rampage. One little twist of fate, such a nicer world to live in. But no. Thanks, Justice.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4707354.stm

Hey, it doesn't just happen to dictators though. Where was that slack whore when a five-times Nobel Peace Prize nominee was being executed? Seriously, even I take more pride in my job than that lazy cunt. Well, at least as much pride, anyway.

A man imprisoned for life, helping people out? Fuck that, let's burn the fucker. That'll show...well, someone...that this kind of shit ain't on. Quick, before he finishes his next anti-gang book, warm up the generator*!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4486178.stm

And another fuck up as Little Miss Look-The-Other-Fucking-Way not once, but twice fails to kill the retard man-mountain who could have stepped in and stopped things (some reports claim he was too busy doing chin-ups to give a pardon, whilst others suggest he is morbidly afraid of the written word), Mr. Schwateverthefuckneger himself.

Shit, he face plants off a bike, smashes himself up skiing and gets lowered into molten steel and he's still pointlessly killing people? What the fuck is this guy made of? Headfirst into that tree and we're laughing, but no, she misses again and Captain California gets to live.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4601822.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/6208095.stm

I give up. I can't do anything about it, so from now on, I will restrict my posts to pictures of cats like everyone else. Check this little fucker out!

Anyway, what I'm really trying to say here is...happy new year, whatever the fuck that means.

*Yeah, I know that in reality, he wasn't fried. Fuck you.

Attention Daily Mail Readers: Kill Yourselves

2006-12-15T14:32:00.000Z

It's retard debate week once again, where the TV morons all queue up to shoot their talking head mouths off and collect some appearance fees whilst getting nowhere at all. Shame none of them ever get mixed up and just shoot their heads off, but as we all know the soulless can never truly die.

And it's been a tricky series of debates to settle, really.

Social drugs in sport. Anyone spending more than ten seconds thought on this one could easily head for the GTMV queue (change this to whatever the fuck GMTV is really called nowadays, I don't care) and lecture Philip Schofield on the long term effects of athletes injecting ketamin into their pee-pees at their regular swinger parties.

In fact, ten seconds is exactly how long it takes to say "I don't give a fucking cunt" twice (assuming you don't have a speech impediment), which is a perfect summary. Who the shit cares if Paula Radcliffe likes coke blown up her naughties through a drain-pipe, as I've heard? Not me, unless the pictures are on the internet. Nor anybody sane, that's for sure.

Fuck, in a sport where all you do is run around, I'd suspect LSD is mandatory to get some interest out of the event. And everyone knows that the Tour De France is run entirely on magic mushrooms. You try spending eight hours staring at the bloke in front's lycra-wrapped arse, see if you don't fancy altering your mind a little before pulling that tight yellow jumper on.

Drugs should be legal for all, and mandatory for sportsmen, and there's no getting away from this being such an obvious fact that even a child or Sun reader could figure it out for themselves.

The 100 metres on weed? An immense improvement over the shit we have to put up with at the moment.

"And he's crossed the line...in a time of 28 minutes, 46.4 seconds. Congratulations to Dominos, who managed to deliver in under 20 minutes for the first time, a new world record. And in the 200, Maltov Cokestein is on his twelfth false start, but looking promising for this...no, he's run off and started dancing in the crowd again, hopefully someone will confiscate that stereo, else we'll be here for a while yet..."

The same goes for prostitution. Who the fuck cares? Nobody sane, that's for sure. Prostitution has been around for about as long as fucking has, and I'm all for both of them.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to inject a hooker into my eyeball or shoot a load into some crack, but who the fuck am I to tell people they can't? Who the fuck is anyone to tell me I can't? The answer to both questions is simple; nobody. All the interfering shithounds would be better just cunting off and letting people do what the fuck they want, maybe we'd finally get somewhere as a planet.

There was never a time when there were no whores, when people didn't fuck, and want to make reality a little more tolerable. Never, never, never, happened. So what I want to know is, what imaginary time and place these anti-pro, anti-ho, anti-blow whiny turds are living in? Are there fantasy bus-tours? Does an imaginary cruise ship stop in your non-existent seaport once a month?

Didn't happen in my day? Your day never existed, you fucking halftard. Go read the Daily Mail and shake your head in fake disgust some fucking place else, those of us with the capability to think have toms to feed opium to.

POP NOTE: I should like to draw attention to the fact that I managed to write an entire article without once taking the piss out of the Mail's laughable obsession with The Princess Of Hearts timely death (4th in the SPL, looks like they didn't need her anyway), even given how topical it would be. Pride wouldn't be too strong a word for what I feel right now, a pride...wait...awww, fuck.

Rambling Diatribe 5: Would A Fruit Basket Help?

2006-11-28T21:54:00.000Z

So we're thinking about apologising for slavery now. And I for one couldn't be more behind the idea of apologising for something I didn't do. Fuck, while we're at it I'd like to apologise to the Russians for faking that moon landing and making you guys lose the cold war. Sorry, comrades.

The Great Fire of London - my bad again, sorry. The invention of Cancer, I don't know what I was thinking that day. The VW Beetle, old and new, shit...I'm lost for words on those two.

That time I tied a chick up and beat her until her eyes bled and she kept crawling round in circles crying until I accidentally suffocated her when trying to shut her up with a pillow...I'm sorry. Wait, that last one was me, so I'm not apologising. In fact, I'd do it again (in the unlikely event you're reading this, Chevaun, you know where to find me).

But if the honourable Mr. Blair wants to ride the apology wagon, perhaps he should start by apologising for the things he has done. Everything since 1997 would be a good place to start, he can work backwards from there if he has some spare time.

If that doesn't appeal, he could always just beat himself to death with a shoe, I'm a easy-going guy.

It seems like kind of a harsh light to shine on history though, judging people based on something that was fine by the moral standards of the day. I mean, I don't want people to be apologising in 200 years time for my not having viciously murdered Robbie Williams. In today's modern times of DVDs, MP3s and digital hard-drives, there's a good chance that some of his dirge will be floating around the world like time-capsule turds for all eternity, and I can't face death with a smile if I'm going to be judged like that.

"And today, the people of Earth issued a blanket apology for Elton John, Madonna and Graham Norton. Unappeased, the Zorgonians refused to lift their war ultimatum and recall their death-ships."

And don't you cunting dare get on your "but morals are better now, we've moved on" whiny fucking high-horse, the pope has killed more people in Africa by a few powers of ten than were ever affected by slavery. How do you fancy your descendents apologising for your part in that genocide?

It's going to take more than a glittery card, that's for sure. Plus I checked and they don't even do a "sorry my ancestors wiped out your entire race because they were lazy and stupid" motto. Note to the Hallmark movers and shakers; a dog looking sad on the front would be a good option, a doghouse in the background would be ideal. One for every occasion my arse, you cocks.

"Yeah, thank fuck we don't enslave the darkies now, civilised and progressive thinking fuckers that we are. We let them die a noble death from starvation, AIDS and Malaria. Let's all do our civilised nation holding hands dance! Come on Mtuele, get up off the floor and join our dance...Mtuele? Mtuele?"

And up front, miming with a guitar? Oh look, it's Bono! I wonder how many African kids he could have helped out instead of running that pathetic "get my hat back" campaign. Every other sentence that little shit-weasel says is "something must be done", and just look what must be done - Bono must have his hat.

Thank fuck it wasn't a jumper, he'd be stomping over piles of dead Kenyans, battering in heads with his guitar and humming to himself "...no I still...haven't found...". I guess a man does have to take Pride in his appearance but the most noble thing that poison dwarf could do is jump into a wood-chipper and donate his ground up internals to the Ethiopians. What a beautiful day that would be for mankind in general (Ok, I'll stop).

So I have a message for the people of the year 2200 reading this now. I would apologise for my part in not supergluing Bono to the front of a train with the brakes disabled, but I won't. Because one day I'll meet the little fucker and do the decent thing. You owe me one, future generations.

Peter O'Phile's Supermarket Slaughterhouse

2006-11-16T17:50:00.000Z

Supermarkets, the highest concentration of cunts that can be found anywhere on this planet outside of America and Belgium. So necessary for the survival of today's food eating man, yet so lacking in that they don't sell guns (except possibly in America).

Sadly though, only the half of the UK population which is currently wasting its life away on benefits can afford the luxury of visiting everyday, and since you can read you probably aren't one of them. Not sure how to maximise your cunt/visit ratio? Well now help is at hand, with the Peter O'Phile guide to pissing off everyone you come across.

Step 0 - Proper Preparation Prevents Something Or Other
Make sure you write a list of all the things you need, because you should always advertise that you are a moron by wandering around clutching a shitty piece of paper in your six fingered grasp. Try not to drop it too many times, even if you have to concentrate really hard.

Bonus points for getting your wife to write the list for you, because you can't even be trusted to buy food. I hope she put directions to get home on the back, else you're lost somewhere on fucked street for sure. Actually, I hope instructions on how to start the car are there somewhere too, you're clearly one brain short of human.

Step 1 - Arrive In Style
Park across two spaces. This is mandatory because you have such a fucking awesome car that you can't let any cunt park near it and risk spoiling the paintwork with their inferior car's shadow*.

Bonus points for parking across two disabled spots, double bonus points if you're in a Saxo with bits of odd-shaped plastic stuck to it with selotape and a neon light glued to the bottom.

Super bonus points for managing to park across four spots like the retarded old cunt I saw a couple of days ago.

Step 2 - Make An Entrance
Make sure you tie your dog up outside, after all, you haven't got a home to leave the little fucker in, and how would it piss people off when it's locked away in the car?

And before anybody points out that leaving a dog in a hot car is the equivalent to roasting it, remember to add barbeque sauce to your shopping list and stop fucking whining. Pissy little bastard dogs, I'd roast the cunting lot of them.

Bonus points for leaving it a bowl of water for me to tread in. Super bonus points if the bowl is just out of the dog's reach.

Step 3 - Nobody Likes A Loner
Nobody wants to go to the supermarket alone and thus keep the number of pricks aimlessly wandering the aisles to a minimum. I recommend that you take at least five kids and two wives in tow.

If you don't have enough kids, try Catholicism, or just steal some from a nearby playground. If you don't have enough wives, try Mormonism, or just steal some from a nearby maternity ward, where they should already be drugged up and in wheelchairs for your convenience.

Bonus points if you brought the old lady with a zimmer frame and insist on walking alongside her the entire time you are there, thus blocking an entire aisle in the most efficient way possible, with minimum human outlay.

Triple bonus points for discussing whether you want eight bags of oven chips or nine with your fat friend for quarter of an hour (during which time the poor starving bitch eats a whole bag of them, wrapper and all).

Step 4 - Phone A Friend
...and chat about shit in a loud voice. This achieves several things all in one easy stage:
1) Nobody thinks you have no friends
2) Nobody thinks you have less initiative than a dead sock.
3) Nobody thinks you are too stupid to work out what you want before you get somewhere.
4) Nobody thinks you are a tosser.

Bonus points if you're actually talking to the speaking clock, which is what everyone assumes anyway.

Mega bonus points if you haven't got a phone, or use the latest Bluetooth "Cunt-04" headsets so that you look like a nutter talking to the invisible shop fairies.

Step 5 - Shop Smart, Stupid (1)
Why wait in the queue like a dummy when you've finished shopping, when you could simply get in the queue and let someone else bring all your shit to you?

Today's modern cunt needs to economise, maximise, efficientise and synergise at 110 percent if they're going to really push the wanker-boundaries to the max. Those people waiting for your mate to fetch fifteen bags of oven chips from the freezer section are only looking forward to death anyway, let the fuckers stand around for a while.

Bonus points for getting your accomplice to take some items back at the same time. Super bonus points for berating him when he gets the wrong brand of oven chips, as though they aren't all from the same fucking factory.

Step 6 - Shop Smart, Stupid (2)
Fuck the normal checkouts, head to the cigarette counter. If they didn't intend for people to buy twenty bags of oven chips from there, they wouldn't have made it big enough. Oh wait, they didn't. Fuck them over anyway.

Bonus points for not buying cigarettes, although you should...and smoke them all at once.

Step 7 - Shop Smart, Stupid (3)
Too stupid to use a cash machine? Why not buy a stick of gum and pay by switch. If you can squirt the words "ten pounds please" out of your breathing-hole, you'll be well on your way to getting a sweet payout...in cuntishness.

Bonus points for changing your mind on how much cash you want five times or more.

Step 8 - Make Friends
Hey, that cashier isn't just a robot there to scan barcodes and attempt to count money, it's a person too. Why not hold everyone up for a few minutes whilst you tell her all about your piles, the weather outside and what you're having for dinner (as a hint, she could probably guess from the thirty bags of oven chips you just bought).

Bonus points for dragging another cashier into the conversation, thus holding up a queue you aren't even part of.

Step 9 - There Is No Step Nine
Congratulations, you are now well on your way to being a complete cunt. Just the other day, I saw a bad-parking-dog-tied-up-zimmer-frame-change-dropper-dull-chat combo that literally took my breath away. Reckon you can beat it? Have fun!

*In reasonable moments, I realise that this is to avoid retarded kids humping dents into your car doors. You're still a tosser though.

WHORE 10/11/06

2006-11-10T12:08:00.000Z

I'm kind of upset that nobody noticed the date on the title was a month out last time round, meaning that the horoscope was completely wrong. Don't worry though, I've double checked everything and this one is 100% accurate.

Taurus:
This week you are going to buy some bad acid (the fact that Mikey was sitting in the middle of the room, pointing at the ceiling and crying when you went round there should have been a bit of a giveaway, you fucking idiot).

Instead of hallucinating interesting colours and shapes, you'll just see a world of grey land, sky and sea, much like before you dropped the tab. And instead of realising that we are all parts of the same interconnected matter, simply experiencing our collective environment from different perspectives, like leaves on different branches of a tree, you'll come to the conclusion that the day to day reality we perceive is actually the real one.

You'll ponder this new finding for a minute. A world that encourages, pushes and even forces people into 9-5 drudgery, a universe that seems to want to turn its inhabitants into dullard wage slaves? A realm which allows the existence of Heat magazine, stretch limos, D.F.Fucking.S and their half price until 2999 fucking offers, Andii Peters, the pope, Linda Cunting-Shithound Barker, AIDS, Cherie Blair and Belgium?

Fuck being interconnected matter with this shitfest, you'll think, I'd be better off alone against the universe, especially as it seems to be watching me with evil intent, experimenting with my tolerance of the shoddy reality it chose to create. Fuck this universe's reality and fuck the horse that this universe's reality rode in on, you'll think.

You'll decide to end it all by jumping off the nearest bridge (although you see it as a bridge, it's actually a multi-storey car park in the town centre), leaving a suicide note explaining that the universe knows why this had to happen and perhaps it might consider not Creatoring if it's going to be such a poor workman. Suggest that it stick to short board surfing in its own transcendental plane and trying to look up other universes' skirts, which is probably the best it can hope for.

Sadly, the universe (which really was fucking with you all along) will change the coroner's perception of your note so that he just reads a lot of stuff about cats and random nonsense about being able to fly. The Sun will carry the four page headline "FLY? WHY?" and the pictures of your semi-splattered corpse will be used as anti-drug propaganda for the next couple of years.

Try not to wave your arms around too much or the amateur camcorder footage will look like you're actually trying to take off. Face your fate with arms held stiff by your sides, or perhaps with one hand raised in a Nazi salute if you're feeling risque (you will be).

Capricorn:
You are a weasel faced lardcunt and the world hates knowing you are walking around on top of it.Tread carefully this week.

PO'P Note: Woah, that came out kind of depressing, but hey, I'm just the messenger...Enjoy the weekend, however you perceive it.

WHORE 03/10/06

2006-11-03T09:31:00.000Z

Ever since a load of astrologers decided that Pluto has shrunk below the size of a planet, the mainstream astronomers have been getting those vital horoscopes all wrong. But never fear, Peter O'Phile is here to correct that, with the PO'P Weekly Horoscope Of Remarkable Exactitude.

Capricorn:
Today you are going to die in a car crash. Ironically, it will happen as you are rushing to buy clean underwear because you read in your horoscope that you were going to die in a car crash and your mother always told you to make sure you had clean underwear in case you died in a car crash (actually she used to mention getting run over by a bus, but you'll figure it's the same basic scenario).

Send a couple of text messages to say goodbye to your loved ones (don't phone, your wife is going to take the news pretty hard as she's in bed sucking your second best friend Ron dry the moment you have to swerve into the bus lane and the last thing you need when facing up to your imminent death at the hands of a drunk Elvis impersonator is a wailing wayward woman) and it's time to head off and meet your destiny.

At least you won't need to worry about the twenty grand you ran up on your credit card in Brighton last weekend, leave it for that cheating slut to deal with. What's a man with a pelvis about to be broken in eight places need ladyboys for anyhow?

Why not ride unbuckled for once, it's not like a seatbelt will help when your head gets popped off by that stop sign. Bon voyage!

Libra:
Your dad is going to die in a car crash that happens because he just read that he was going to die in a car crash. You might want to put an extra couple of Logic Diodes into that Cause/Effect machine you've been working on as a birthday present for him (not that there's any rush to finish it now anyway). Try not to blame yourself too much, these things happen in the pursuit of Science, and as your mother always says "you can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs".

Although she does all the cooking so you have to take her word for it (you really can't make an omelette, but let's see that loose legged bitch throw together an Entropy Reversal Wand), it's much better advice than the stuff she's been spouting lately about wearing clean underwear the day you die.

Happy inventing, and try to accept your new father, Ron as best you can.

PO'P Note: I have a load of sponges soaked in petroleum, ready and waiting for some fuckers to attempt a fireworks display anywhere near my house this weekend. Why not try your luck, you feeble fuckers.

En Francais, Nobody Can 'Ere You Scream...

2006-10-26T15:29:00.000Z

...But if you happen to point out that they're all spineless war-shy cunts who hide in bushes at the first sign of a ruck, suddenly they're all ears.

Just got back from a three day trip over there and I'm too tired to do anything other than smoke and stare at walls (fortunately this is something of a hobby anyway). I've been sitting around all day with that weird feeling you get when you've been on a boat for a few days, then stand on some solid ground, which then seems to keep moving gently up and down, and everything has a grey tinge to it (admittedly this is England, so everything being grey isn't all that unusual).

I can't even be arsed to write about how stupid the phrase "postcode lottery" is, given that there only two numbers in a fucking postcode and that all you "win" is a new hip, compared with enough cash to pay a couple of Ethiopian kids to grow a whole new set of organs for you with the real thing (it happens, trust me).

I also can't be arsed to question why most doctors who claim you can't tickle yourself because "you're already expecting it" don't expect it when other people tickle them. Are there surprise ticklings going on that I'm missing out on? Should I be approaching people and doing the same?

No, I would suggest that they are lying cunts and they don't really know why people can't tickle themselves but are too shifty to admit it. Which is why I'd rather die than go to a doctor ever again.

Oh wait, it looks like I could be arsed. C'est la cunt, non?

And for a complete change of track, some pictures of cocks (NSFW):

Shoot on sight, people.

Firefox: Fuck Off

2006-10-18T20:38:00.000Z

Somebody needs to say it, though it comes under the topic of nerd heresy*...Firefox fucking sucks.

Four years ago, it was an idea whose time had come. People were anxious to browse porn sites without IE installing 20 sets of hijacking software and 32 viruses before the fluffer had even finished his work. They were ready for a browser which didn't try to take over their entire computer with popups if they so much as looked at a link the wrong way. They were...well, sick to the kidneys of Internet Explorer and its vast arrays of shitness.

So it came to pass that Firefox crawled out of its hole and people flocked to it. Literally tens of people gave it a shot. And it was good, or so it appeared. No more gaudy flash adverts appearing and playing chicken sounds when you're at work, no need for the rapid Alt-F4 hitting sessions closing all those lovely windows full of leg spread lovelies when the boss stopped by for a chat, a quick Ctrl-Tab would hide Debbie Does Dallas 1-44 and the entire Shaved Cat Suicide Mega Happy collection in the blink of one eye. No more would you fear to press the "home" button, in case it had been changed from www.youngirlsuckingoatesticles.com to something disgusting or worse, non-pornographic.

But sooner or later, the harsh light of day has to shine upon everything and the time has come for Firefox. Whilst it doesn't show popups, this is probably because it is so slow it can't show popups. And it may not run those stupid adverts done in Flash that spring to life when you wander your mouse over them, but it does instead crash the one time you actually want to run a Flash thingy. Don't even think of trying to open a word document or excel spreadsheet in one click, you'd be better off dousing your computer in holy water and running off to join the circus, who will probably tattoo those numbers from accounts you needed onto your chest in the fullness of time. At the very least, you be able to molest some dwarves, but I digress.

What a fucking let-down, those cunts got hold of a great idea and did fuck all to see it through. What a double fucking pisser that I'm even surprised it happened that way.

So fuck it, I'm off to install IE7. Sound the horns and release the Firehounds.

*Normally this would mean I'd say it earlier purely to piss people off. Eye on the ball in future, O'Phile.

PS, The below happened while I was writing this. Seriously. And people wonder why I'm always so fucking pissed off. Fucking rat-shit-cunt-paedo-tramp bastards, the lot of them.

Tie Me A Ribbon

2006-10-12T16:44:00.000Z

It's high time I pointed out that everybody wearing those awareness ribbon things are tossers. What the fuck is wrong with just donating to breast cancer and having done? Nothing, the titties will still get saved or sliced (possibly the only noble cause left in this world) just the same either way*.

So why wear a ribbon? To nag at other people? I've given money, why haven't you? Well fuck right off on that score. That thing cost money to make - if you really gave a shit, you'd sell it on ebay and donate the profit back. Or insist they didn't make any in the first place.

Which leaves us with only one conclusion - the people who wear these things are showing off. Fine, you paid up and now we know how kind and loving you are. Your heart is on your sleeve, as is your heart-disease awareness and love of people with AIDS. You Care.

So why is it that when I gave a tramp a tenner last week and told him to follow me around all evening telling young females that I was a generous and groovy guy (not that he needed to, I was simply trying to educate him on the benefits of a fair day's work), I got banned from the Tollman's Arms? Hypocrisy and bollockism, that's what it is.

In hindsight, tying him up next to that Bull Mastiff was a bit off but I couldn't take him inside, he smelt like someone who lives on the streets for fuck's sakes.

It gets worse - there are so few colours in the world that the charity bastards have to share. For example, I love our troops (this is just an example remember, I've only ever met one squaddie I didn't hate. In fact, I've only ever met a handful of people I didn't hate. Is there a ribbon for that?), so I must pin a yellow ribbon to my chest. Done.

But wait, now I am also supporting Obesity. Fuck those fatties, they can swing from an appropriately strong rope. In the wrong light, I am all about Leukaemia. And I hope that the people who decided bladder cancer should have a yellow ribbon did it for a laugh (I've checked, bowel cancer isn't brown, the humourless bastards).

All I can say is that Tony Orlando will be spinning in his grave, and people wearing these ribbons should be pushed into rivers on sight from this point onwards.

*It has occurred that wearing a pink ribbon may allow you to hang around mastectomy clinics gathering "offcuts". In which case, this whole article is moot and I'm off to buy one now.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe...

2006-10-02T16:26:00.000Z

Even when it was the Muslims, I knew it was the Elephants. First we have that sting ray eating Steve Irwins, now this happens. Round them up and shoot them before it's too late, I say.

The War on The Animalian Kingdom starts here (except for humans who are not really animals (which is why vegetarians think it's ok to eat them, the evil shits)). Apparently it's not unknown for sharks to attack people too. Put this alongside the occasional humming bird killing frenzy, armadillo assaults and snakes randomly boarding planes (that one did well, didn't it), it's clear what we have to do. Nuke the fuckers. And don't forget that a monkey invented AIDS. Did even Hitler go that far? Exactly.

In unrelated news, I was hiding from my manager in a toilet cubicle today and someone came in (to the toilet, not the cubicle) and started cleaning their teeth. Bit fucking odd. Especially as they had toothpaste (I could smell the minty freshness over my own stench) and a brush, which they must be keeping stashed in a pocket.

And you thought toilets were just for drinking, sleeping and shitting in. I guess you do learn something new every day.

Rambling Diatribe 4

2006-09-20T15:23:00.000Z

There's a Weird Week 2 coming up soon, it really has been a fucking odd one, even by my standards. I'm too tired to write it up at the moment, the people at the place I go to hang out during the day and thus save on electricity say that unless I do some work for them I'll have to find another place to get free internet access. Complete shower of cunts, the lot of them.

I seem to have been spending a lot of time being held up at the moment, I was just stood waiting to buy tabs whilst some mental ant of a woman bought a lottery ticket, including the full "I hope you win, bet you'd quit your job, oh no I wouldn't, I'd still blow tramps for a fiver a pop" routine. Fucking idiots. I was sighing so hard and muttering "cunt" so often that I fainted and lost my place in the queue.

How the fuck are people still squeezing out conversations about the lottery, for cock's sakes? Can't you do anything more topical than that? If I cut off your face will there be metal and wires underneath? Jesus. I wonder if Edward John Smith's last meal was a submarine sandwich with crispy seaweed on a bed of iceberg lettuce - wouldn't that be ironic? How's that for topical, you cripple-brained oxygen depurifier?

What's with selling lottery tickets at the cigarette counter anyway? Are there thousands of people trying to win the lottery so they can cure cancer? I don't fucking think so. No, they'll win, buy eight Ferraris, shit all over their "old" friends and cancer can go smoke itself, same as every other cunt.

But yeah, being held up. Horses on the road. Every day there's an army of little girls trotting up and down my road, shitting on the place and stopping traffic all around. All little girls, all getting their first taste of the love between their legs. (It's the horses shitting mainly, in case the previous sentence was a little confusing.)

Don't get me wrong. I like the idea of women getting acquainted with clitoral stimulation at an early age - the more sex crazed ladies there are roaming the streets in search of something to rub themselves on the better, is the way I see it.

But cars replaced the horse as a form of transport, why can't they do the same with this side of the equestrian experience and all learn to ride washing machines instead? Put some springs on the bottom, set it on a spin cycle and you could even still have that bizarre show jumping crap. Horses, in my opinion, are for dribbling cunts (literally).

Motorways are another one. I was held up for about an hour the other day because some fucking inbred piece of penis dribble couldn't drive in a straight line. What the fuck? You're telling me you didn't see the straight road ahead? Do you hallucinate roundabouts? Seriously, I don't know, fill me in here.

And for that whole time, I'm staring at an advert (illegal, by the way) by the side of the motorway for CuntShitIndianPokerOnlineGaming.com. Huh? Are people driving down the M1 at 80mph, six inches from the back of the car in front and thinking, "Fuck me this motorway is dull, I need me some gamblin'."? Are they getting out PDAs and losing their shirt between junctions 10 and 11? Is that what's causing the crashes?

"Dude, the Russian Mafia are emailing you to pull over at Trowell services, you owe them 10 grand and they need to break your kneecaps as security."
"Fuck that, I'm heading for the barriers! I regret nothiiiiiiiii"
*CRUNCH*

Also, why are people vandalising motorway service station shitters? I know from thorough research into people that they vandalise for two reasons; jealousy and boredom. Whose house is nastier than a service station shitter? Who gets bored in there, what are they doing? It's not like there isn't plenty to read.

I go in there, I'm shitting before I sit down, I wipe (once, using the cleanest thing in there, my left hand) and I'm out. Sometimes I just shit down my trouser leg whilst walking into the toilet, then it's a quick shake into the bowl and I'm gone. What are these people doing in there to get so bored they pull the flush handle off?

My only guess is that they're waiting for Big Darren, who will be arriving (although his incorrect spelling and grammar phrase it "cumming") at 14:00 every Tuesday. I have some advice for these people - he's spotty and smells of horses, leave the toilet intact, shit, get off the pot and fuck off.

Schrödinger's Muslim

2006-08-24T20:32:00.000Z

Nuclear War. CJD. Global Warming. AIDS. Mega-Tsunamis. Climate Change. MDMA. Killer Asteroids. Dope. Sea World. Acid Rain. The Muslims.

Enough to have shattered every single human being on this planet to tiny red pieces 83 times over. Yet we are still here, more or less.

So now we have pissed up pikey yob cunts deciding who can and can't fly back from the Costa Scathole with them, Mosques being burnt down and I can't travel by air for the next year or so.

I can imagine my reaction when they try to tell me that I can't take anything but the pair of pants I (may be) wearing and a single page torn at random from an approved book. The kind of sarcasm I would be unable to resist can get you put away, probably indefinitely.

But yes, the Great British Public, responsible for such entertaining and well-informed vigilante cat-raids as beating up Paediatricians and murdering women as witches are given a voice to decide who is welcome to share their £20 return to "Barcer". They'd let me, and the honour inherent in this makes me want to cut chunks out of my arms.

I say great. Let the thought-idle fuckers burn up their energy on another fucking farce, their sloping brows furrowed further with fear every time they see a turban. Give them a distraction, lest they come for us.

Let the babies have their bottle, let those who can think and spot such patterns sit back and enjoy the gallows humour absurdity of their actions.

I'll die of cancer. You'll die of a heart failure. That guy in the corner jerking off and making honking noises with his nose? I already told you - cancer. Our eyes are open.

But let the babies have their bogeymen.

So, to join in with the spirit of fear and hysteria being drummed into us like a newspapier-maché dragon boat, I've formed the theory of Schrödinger's Muslim.

The average raghead lives in an indeterminate state, until roused from slumber and shot several times by an overzealous policeman (Observed). The act of being beaten from bed with a cattle prod forces the Muslim to take on one of two states - either Terrorist, or Paedophile. Vote buttons are below. If you Observe a Muslim, please let me know which from he/she takes.

I hope we can finally get some decent intelligence on this island.

Rambling Diatribe 3

2006-08-10T19:04:00.000Z

These adverts for Andrex "puppy on a roll" shit moppers have me a little confused. Can you imagine being that guy?

"So yeah, my portfolio is to break down brand loyalties to toilet paper."
"We're making big strides at the moment by getting people to smear shit all over little puppies...uh...printed onto the roll. Really...uh...truly exciting times for arse wiping technology."
"The next step is to break into sneezes. Reeeeeeal big money in snot cleanup."
"Oh God, I've wasted my life."
"BANG."

Wiping crap off your arse with puppies? Even I baulk at that. For a start kittens are fluffier and easier to flush. Rubbing your ring on Rover? Swabbing sweetcorn with Shep? Yeah, that's a well adjusted society we've got here. Cute.

The trailer for "Snakes on a plane" is another baffler. What the fuck? I'm still not even sure if it's a joke or not. Jesus, can you imagine sitting through two hours of that without losing the plot and getting thrown out for setting fire to the screen again?

"There's snakes! On a plane!"
"I dunno...um...should we land?"
"Fuck, yeah. Let's just land the fucking thing and get off. I'm too old for this shit."
"CUT"

I wonder what the twist will be? Maybe the snakes will actually be lizards, or poisonous crocodiles, or terrorists. Hopefully it'll at least keep a few sets of idiots off the streets for a couple of hours, which is all today's modern film on the move aspires to anyway. It could be like a mini-holiday from retards, which is another subject I'm getting fucked off with at the moment. I mean holidays not retards, you obtuse shit.

I mean, who the fuck doesn't realise that holidays are shit? What sane person wants to be trapped on a cruise ship with the kind of people who would want to go on a fucking cruise ship? It's a constant topic of conversation all summer long - where to, how much, how long, what hole, wait, strike that last one.

So I have an idea - why doesn't everyone shut the fuck up about holidays, go on one and I'll just stay here. You deal with the fucking flights and the passport comptrollers, the delhi belly and the bloated derby bellies, the local driving and the locals, the boring fallen down castles and shitwater regional beers, all of which have you using up roll after roll of the local shit rags which you can't flush and don't even have animals printed on them.

I'll just stay here, enjoying my holiday from the fucking morons. I'll be able to walk down streets without some fake fucking charity worker asking for my bank details, I'll drink in pubs free from people taking 15 minutes to order a small coke and pay for it with a Switch card. I might even be able to go to the cinema without killing everyone there, because I'll be the only one there.

Fuck it, I've seen trailers for this one where a load of snakes get onto a plane for some reason. I can't remember what it's called but don't send me a postcard, I'll be just fine.

Unnecessary Lesson 5: You Really Are A Fucking Dumbass

2006-08-04T17:21:00.000Z

No matter how much your curiosity may tug at your soul, no matter how much you refine the number of pages of a book you are using to deflect the force, no matter how controlled you think you can make the experiment, it is never a good idea to shoot yourself in the leg with an air-rifle.

It took an hour of picking away at tiny bits of blood soaked paper with tweezers and nail scissors to finally get the pellet out from inside me and my leg is a bruised and bloody fucking mess. I will probably not be repeating this experiment. Probably.

For those now wondering, it hurt, but not as much as I expected*.

Photos to follow when I can make my cameraphone perform either of its duties. Fucking Nokia.

*Someone needs to work out exactly what pain factor (PF) alchohol dulls by on a per unit basis. My guess? Lots.

More Fun With Referers

2006-07-28T14:46:00.000Z

A spinet total of two people have "stumbled" across this place after entering "cheeseburger joke" into Google.

To start with, this floored me for a number of reasons. Why would anyone be looking for joke cheeseburgers? What are these people hoping to do with a cheeseburger and whom to? Why would that kind of person even be allowed internet access? Or cheeseburgers?

I got bogged down in a cycle of bafflement. Each supposition (and suppository) just led me to further questions, before finally, it sank in:

I was selling casual visitors to this place short - there is literally no information on cheeseburger jokes in this oasis otherwise packed with enlightenment. I must make amends. If that's what the moronic public wants, then that's what the moronic public gets. Therefore, and without much further ado, the Peter O'Phile guide to cheeseburgers, jokes and cheeseburger based jokes.

Top 5 Cheeseburger Pranks:
5) Do not put any cheese in the burger.
4) Give them one of those squeaky dog toy things in the shape of a cheeseburger.
3) Make the bun out of desiccated cowshit.
2) Set fire to anybody ordering a cheeseburger, looking at a cheeseburger, or saying "cheese". Ever.
1) The McDonalds Cheeseburger (a repeat of prank 4 in many ways).

Top 4 Cheeseburger Related Jokes:
4) A man walks into a bar wearing nothing but a load of cheeseburgers stuck together with selotape. "What the fuck is that all about?" says the bartender. "Oh. It's kind of embarrassing, but I have an eating disorder" the man replies.
3) Don't you hate it when your mind plays tricks on you? The other day I made a cheeseburger and the dirty bastard filled the fucker with carpet tacks!
2) Last week I went up to a policeman and threw a cheeseburger in his face. He got angry and started to push me, at which point I whacked him with a second cheeseburger I had hidden in my other hand. Blinded with rage and bits of cheeseburger, he pulled out his truncheon and started to beat me to the ground. At this moment I pointed at him and shouted out in a clear voice "It's PC Gone Mad"! I got out of hospital yesterday.
1) Elvis.

Top 3 Things To Say When Someone Asks You About Cheeseburger Jokes
3) Get. Help.
2) What the fuck are you on about, you crazy shit?
1) The restraining order is perfectly clear about this kind of thing. Back to 50 yards, now.

Top 2 Cheeseburger Joke Punchlines
2) Raping a horse!
1) I haven't been cunting, drinkstable!

Top Cheeseburger Joke As Told By A Woman
1) "There's that one about the priest and the rabbi, then...oh, I've forgotten how it ends. You know, when he eats the cheeseburger then dies. Or does he die? Oh, I'm so bad at jokes...it's all sooooo embarrassing. I think I'll cry for a bit now, because I ate a cheesburger three days ago and looked a bit fatty round the ankles yesterday. Plus I'm on my period and you know how that plays havoc with my cheeseburger appetite..." (ad nauseam, ad infinitum)

Well hopefully that's that omission corrected anyway. In the unlikely event I've missed anything (given Petoral Infallibility and all), email me at PeterOPhile@Gmail.com.

Very Belated April Fool's Day Joke

2006-07-18T17:08:00.000Z

I had the perfect April Fool's worked out but I was too lazy to do it. Still, now seems like a good time to write it up, maybe then I'll remember in time for next year.

It all stemmed from the idea that killing myself would be a fucking awesome prank - nobody would see that one coming, I'd be a living comedy legend (except the legend part). Next I thought I should come up with a way to do this that is in itself a joke, maximising the comedy of the whole thing. But how?

The idea hit me, like a book I'd put high up on some shelves and then knocked down by accident when pretending to be a mountain climber. I should kill myself...in secret, using gravity.

My work people have no contact details for my family, nor does my landlord or in fact, anyone else. Only a handful of people even know where I live and they would be both uncontactable and used to my disappearing for extended periods of time. I wondered how long I could go dead for before anyone noticed and then how long I could remain dead before anyone actually found me.

So I decided on a plan - I'd climb up in my loft without using a stepladder, spread magic-tree air fresheners all over the shop, put the access hatch back in place and then hang myself from the rafters behind a big pile of boxes. Why would the police look for me in a loft? I don't think they would, not for a while anyway. I reckon that two weeks would be a reasonable target. A truly amazing reasonable target, granted, but a reasonable target none the less.

Utter genius if I do say so myself. In fact...fuck it, I might just do it now - the super-double-cheeseburger joke being that it isn't even April. Yeah, fuck it, I will do it.

I'll just post my suicide note here, then head off and meet my maker. Hopefully somebody will find it at some point and let the world in general know of its tragic loss. Goodbye, and thanks for reading!

Peter O'Phile.

PO'P EDIT: Shit, I've got bats up there again. I'm not letting those fuckers eat my eyes and engorged penis (from the hanging rather than anything else, this is a serious business). It'll just have to wait.

PO'P EDIT2: I've just remembered that I'm hugely disdainful of people who kill themselves (not that it matters to Deady McNoPulse), fucking wimpshit quitters should all be brought back to life and have to commit suicide again from the shame of taking such a girly way out. Looks like I dodged a bullet (literally) there!

Randumb

2006-07-14T12:22:00.000Z

Proper update coming soon, maybe even today. I'm having trouble fashioning it into anything even vaguely readable. My advice is not to hold your breath (unless I hate you, in which case carry on).

I'm in an odd mood which certainly has nothing to do with the two litres of red bull I've consumed so far today, so here's some random shit that wouldn't fit anywhere else...

Peter O'Phile The People O'Phile (aka Phil Anthropist)

I saw this in my referrer list and nearly pissed my pants (they were dirty anyway). That's Dr O'Phile to you:

(I especially like the shortened version of a couple of articles in the text.)

They've since dropped me off the search, so I won't post a link. Fucking Spanish fucks.

Fags

I buy my cigarettes over the internet because I am fucked off with paying tax to the British government, plus they're cheaper.

Price Per Pack From Greece - £3.
Price Per Pack From UK - £5.
Price Per Pack From Greece But After Peter Has Forgotten To Pay Credit Card Bill Several Times - £5.50.

Yeah, I'm not good with credit cards.

A Depraved Man's Guide: Budapest

2006-07-11T18:24:00.000Z

Weather / Accommodation

It may be very fucking hot. If, like me, you are unable to sleep (or particularly move) in hot weather, a crude but cooling bed can be fashioned by laying a towel down on the floor of a shower and rolling another towel into a pillow. Try to remember to turn the water off before the sweet embrace of sleep, otherwise when you wake up three hours later, you will be surprised not to have drowned. If you wake up at all.

Further to this, most hotel rooms have air-conditioning, even in the ex-communist peasantry. When you notice the air-conditioner high up on the wall, do not assume that the front panel will switch it on, even though a tall cupboard is required to gain access. There will be a remote control and the damage from the fall will hurt when you sober up.

Flower beds are much less comfortable to sleep in than they may at first appear, due to their evil Stalinist roots, which will poke you maliciously in the back.

Entertainment

Strippers
Strippers are not sexy. People who think that a woman removing all her clothes and then attempting to remove yours and those of the 10 other watching males before dancing on your lap in front of them is a desirable experience are all very fucking odd people.

Normal people like me find the whole experience embarrassing and strange. It did appear that I was the only normal person in our group, and that there is a general shortage of normal people in this world. I don't get it, I never will. Fucking weirdos.

As usual, pointing this out may lead to you being called gay, despite the fact that the man-titty to good-titty ratio is around 1/10. It should go without saying that the penis to penis-holder ratio is even lower if you have made poor decisions in booking the dancer.

Guns
The Walther PPK is a girly piece of shit and seemed to consistently shoot low and left. The Sig Sauer SP2022 however, is a fantastic gun and will enable the skilled amateur to kill more or less anything he or she may want to. The Colt .357 is equally capable but may also kill a few things you didn't intend to, probably from catastrophic bowel failure.

Beer
Beer is cheap, take the opportunity to drink as much as is humanly possible while you can. Nothing more needs to be said on this subject.

Culture / Outlook

Smoking is not only allowed everywhere, it seems mandatory. Sadly the trend of wimping out and jumping aboard the cotton-wool nanny bus can only be biding its feeble time. I admire Budapest for its liberal stance but I know that someday I will have to mourn its passing.

A similar story can be told of handguns. No civilised nation considers its citizens such lunatics as to be unable to responsibly shoot the occasional round at a wall covered in targets rather than a bus full of schoolchildren. Sadly the world seems to be heading in a less civilised direction of late and I am sure that handguns will shortly be joining the smokers and dinosaurs in extinction.

Most Budapestians speak passable English. Try not to piss of the entire country by mentioning the cold war at every opportunity and mumbling about getting more beers for the motherland. Asking guides if they know where "all the tanks are hidden" is also considered a faux-pas. Fuck knows why HSBC didn't mention that little titbit in their stupid fucking adverts.

In all, Budapest was less of a shitfest than I had expected. Looking back, this is mostly because I was allowed to shoot guns and smoke without worry, instead opting to relax in an environment of doing whatever the fuck I wanted. I can only hope that the laissez-faire lifestyle hidden behind the iron curtain can stay in place for another 1000 years - Britain and its jumped up comptrollers can burn in shit for all I care.

An Uninteresting Post About My Uninteresting Life. Not Interested? Look Away Now

2006-07-05T18:48:00.000Z

Yeah, I've been neglecting this fucking thing. Every time I try and I write on Blogger (once, to be fair), it cocks up, shows the white flag and its yellow belly like an elite army of French soldiers.

And now I'm off to Budapest on some shitfest fucking stag weekend. Fuck knows why I agreed to go. What's wrong with a stag night? In fact, what's wrong with a stag pint? Fucking stupid idea if you ask me. Weather reports say 30 degrees plus, so I'll be sweating like a French soldier within sight of the enemy but without anything white in my possession. And probably saying "merde" a lot more.

There are a few burning issues that need attending to, I've been too lazy to finish articles with the following titles:

"I Didn't Come To This Multiplayer Online Game To Chat, Goddammit!", "Attention Scientists: Stop Trying To Kill Peter.", "Don't Know What To Do? Do Nothing." and "Rambling Diatribe 3."*.

Hopefully I'll be able to fight off the technical issues (read sober up) and sort some proper shit out next week. No doubt they'll all be rushed and utter cock as a result and will never see the light of day. Swings and roundabouts and all things nice, as they say in Hungary (I hope, anyway).

I've been asked about tonight's World Cup match between France and Portugal and who I'll be supporting. Well I'm rooting for the terrorists on this one. The Mad Mullahs must have some use, come on lads...win one for Blighty.

*Title's a bit vague, isn't it? What a tosser.

PO'P EDIT: Now this fucking thing won't fucking publish either. Something or someone is going to fucking swing and burn. Fucking amateur cunts. If you can read this, then you are witnessing a fucking miracle.

Peter Vs The EnviroMentalists 2

2006-06-23T15:23:00.000Z

I'm on a running theme of saving the world. Mainly because I want to be the one to destroy it, not some undeserving military dictator or that funny looking Michael Jackson thing.

So the world media (by which I mean the UK media, nowhere else matters worth a shit except maybe Thailand) is up in arms over our Trident nuclear program, which will shortly be going past its Armageddon Date, decomposing into green goo and turning all those brave soldiers hiding out on our leaky subs into The Incredible Hulk but gay (I assume, they'd be gay, they spend an awful lot of time at sea. I know I could have made a joke about seamen there, just like I could have braked when that kid fell into the road in front of my car this morning. Let me do the jokes, ok?).

And it's a good time to argue the point - the fucking things need replacing in less than twenty years, we'd best get the fuck on with it before the Germans start gazing longingly across the channel and warming up their Mercedes N-Class war machines. Hurry hurry hurry, I say. Of course, Greenpeace and the Ecowhimpers are wringing their feeble hands in utter terror at the thought of us replacing dangerous, slightly smelly old weapons with nice safe new ones, as is their wont.

But fuck those retards, we need nukes to stop the Yanks from nuking us an inch past our lives without fear of reprisal. Don't think for one second that they aren't out there with their CND t-shirts on, campaigning for world peace and plotting for 2024, VE-Day 2. They are waiting in the wings and the French will follow like the horse eating copycat lapdogs we all know they are.

So we need nukes as a deterrent. Fine.

On the other hand they seem very expensive and I'd rather the government was spending its money on a CyberTronic DeathSuit for me. I'll show the fucking Frogs who's boss, then slam my jetpack into gear, fly over the Pacific and teach the Septics who really won the civil war - me. But I digress - we need nukes as a deterrent.

The thought occurs though - if Saddam pulls the pin and lobs a couple of N-bombs our way, does it really matter to me in my final minutes, as I'm jerking off to the wrestling, whether he's getting a faceful of U-235 right back at him or not? When I've got my meat in one hand and a bowl of caviar in my lap, waiting furiously to be turned into boiling hot Peter Soup, does it really make a difference? Well, no. Of course it doesn't. My balls will be just as empty and my face just as melted either way.

So here's the plan...fake WMDs. We tell the filthy Sovs we've got a hundred subs, so advanced that they will never find them lurking in an ocean somewhere, loaded up to the portholes with instant sunshine death, but don't actually bother making any of the fuckers. They go searching but find nothing - because the technology is so fucking awesome. They are terrified of us and unable to press any buttons. The balance remains the same.

Problem solved, Peter O'Phile in altruistic genius mode again, scores a stunning victory (the papers should read). And does The Queen write to thank me? Does she fuck. Stuck up fucking bitch deserves all she's going to get. Except the born-into-riches lifestyle and all that. That's probably undeserved, but the vicious, unrelenting ass punching? Yeah, she has that coming.

I also note that several groups are claiming to speak for the silent majority. This pisses me off to the point of setting off nuclear devices in various capital cities around the world. Next time someone claims to speak for the silent majority, they're going to be on the sharp end of a silent multiple stabbing, followed by a silent corpse defiling. There may be a few manly grunts emitted but they'll get the point, if you get my drift.

The silent fucking majority. If there was one, I'd fucking kill them all. Fake Nukes - write to your MP now and avoid some Greenpeace shitbrain trying to speak for you. If you could write to mine as well it would help tremendously, the restraining order is quite clear on any further communication from me.

This is Peter O'Phile, unable to find a good way to end this communique. Fuck off and write that letter.

Peter Vs The EnviroMentalists

2006-06-12T18:36:00.000Z

Global warming. Pointing out that I don't blindly accept the theory of global warming as true has lead to some odd results at times. The most obvious example is my being called a fascist several times. Which makes a lot of sense really - expressing a freely held contrary opinion to the average Ecobot can often enrage them. How dare I not follow their beliefs? There should be a law against it. Fuck it, he's a fascist wanker anyway (to be fair, 50% of that last assumption is correct).

I could bitch about the Envirocunts all day. In fact I did once, but I got sacked and that's not what I'm here for today. So I'll just say that I dislike people who try to force their opinion onto me and often force my pint glass into them in return. Into this box go the religious, Ecotwats and a shedload of other retards. Let's leave it at that.

So I don't accept global warming as fact. It might be true, I don't know. But fuck it, I've dedicated about eight seconds' thought to the issue and solved it. Now the little pricks can start worrying about global coldening, which I can also solve (for a fee this time).

Have you ever left your fridge open for a week by mistake? I have. Your kitchen gets cold. Cold as fuck, actually. I opened the window and it got warmer. Now my Physics background tells me that the cold air escaped to the outside. Therefore, I cooled the world down by a tiny bit.

Here's the plan - we all leave our fridges open for an entire 24 hours. Fair enough, it'll cost us all a bit extra in electricity but we could easily cool the planet by two or three degrees, maybe even six or so. If we work together we could beat this thing, for once and for all. International Winners Against Nasty Climates Day is June the 30th. Let us unite and kick climate change to the kerb, just by leaving our fridge doors open. Hell, run your A/C for the entire 24 hours if you want (but try not to catch a cold, it's not worth it).

Email your friends, email your enemies and email that guy you slept with in a night-club toilet one time when you were on LSD and thought I was in an owl sanctuary. Spread the message, spread the word - International Winners Against Nasty Climates Day. Live it, for life.

POP NOTE: Every time I see a Toyota Prius on the road, I complete my journey without changing out of first gear, so don't think that's going to help solve the problem. Leave your fridge door open instead and actually contribute for once, you fucking prick.

God Takes Another Shot

2006-05-25T19:21:00.000Z

PO'P NOTE: This one ain't for the fainthearted. And you know that I don't normally put warnings like that on my stuff...Ok?

I just busted out of hospital. Which sounds cool, except for the fact that I was walking like an old man, half covered in puke and sweating like a child molester let loose in the paediatrics ward of a hospital. And I didn't bust out, they "asked me to leave".

Apparently, it is still possible after all these years of evolution to tear one's duodenum. Thanks for that piece of intelligent design, God. You fucker.

Also apparently, consuming nothing all day but around 20 Aspirin and a bottle of Red Bull will make the problem worse, so that after two nights of shitting out jet black diarrhoea and puking up some of the same, it is clearly time to put oneself at the mercy of The Quacks.

Who promptly put a drip in your arm and then forget all about you, so that the blood they are trying to replace runs back up the tube. Fuckers. They will then follow this up by giving you an endoscopy. Double fuckers.

Now, people will try to tell you that an endoscopy is fun. Hell, it used to be a ride at Alton Towers if I remember rightly. Let me tell you now, they are lying cunts. Every one of them.

Basically, they put you on your side, hold you down and put a mouthpiece in (your mouth). "Fuck, I call that Saturday night", you're probably all thinking. Well next, they get a piece of black tubing about 1cm in diameter and stuff it down your throat like a fucking snake wrestler. As it approaches, it looks like they are slowly jamming a disco ball into you as the coloured optic fibre wobbles about just in front of your eyes.

Then you start retching uncontrollably. Of course, they've forgotten to give you a gown, or you told them you wouldn't wear one because you weren't a faggot, or something like that, so you puke all over your arms and chest, constantly, for about five minutes. I now have a slight amount of respect for women and a very sore throat. I have also used my entire year's allocation of the word "cunt" and will have to borrow some from someone else.

Eventually they gave me some pills and lectures on a variety of topics, pronounced me fit to fight another day and threw me out. But not before I'd made some important observations:

Hospitals Are Pussies
They never once told me to do anything. It was all please Mr. O'Phile, thanks Mr. O'Phile. I was not supposed to eat for six hours before the endoscopy but they said if I demanded food, they would bring me some. They asked permission to put a drip in me. They asked if they could take my blood pressure and would have been fine with my refusal. They even asked for permission to look at my shit, should I decide to take one (sadly I couldn't help them here, much as I wanted to).

If I was feeling better, I would have been pretty contemptuous of their wimpy attitude. They own the fucking shop, they are the experts, they should be calling the shots. My way, or the fucking highway, shitbag. I know that's how I would be in the same situation.

Take The Gown
Ok, your ass will hang of it out for reasons you will never fathom (why do they need emergency ass access?). But, as you will all know, puke and blood both stain clothing irreparably. Not to mention the complaints when you get back to work still wearing the same top. Fucking prudes.

Tarry Shit
Everyone of a certain mindset (probably those still reading) should experience this - once. I even took a photo the first time, it was such an unusual sight (yeah I'm odd, what a fucking surprise). Sadly by the tenth time, the novelty will have worn off and slight concern will be replacing it.

So now I have to take some proton pump inhibitors (which sounds pretty gay), slept for over 16 straight hours yesterday and every muscle in my body is fucked up from fighting the endoscope guy. But I'll recover, then I'll be showing that stomach who's boss. Fucking internal organs thinking they fucking run the shop, going to get what's coming to them. Who's laughing now, small intestines? What's that, you don't like the taste of glass? Fucking wimpy little shits.

Altruism 1 - Getting Some

2006-05-19T14:46:00.000Z

Have you ever woken up in bed with a big bowl of custard next to you and 12 midgets crammed into a sleeping bag in the corner?

No, me neither. But now I've got your attention, I've noticed that something important needs to be discussed. I've had literally no emails on this subject and now it's time to share my tips for getting your tip...into chicks.

Why? Because it seems to me that the world is full of cunts acting like dicks who need to empty their balls. Time to get the world laid, maybe then I won't want to kill quite so many people. Maybe.

Spread a little happiness, cheer some fucks the fuck up with a little hard fucking. So let's get to the fucking point before my f key breaks, shall we?

NEW MAN / METROSEXUAL / FAGGERY

Nothing tells a woman that you're a heterosexual male on the prowl for loving quite so much as dressing like a homo. Seriously, chicks dig guys who act like women.

Put a little concealer on, wear pink, shave your legs and get a manbag. Ok, you'll only pull lesbians and they're going to be pretty pissed when you get them home and whip out Mr. Winky then slap them round the face with it, but hey, that's their fault for being evil sexist bitches, right?

WORK IT OUT, WORK IT IN

Those hormonal split arses are genetically programmed to go for guys who look like they've eaten a tortoise. It's something to do with providing breast milk, I don't quite get the maths, but it's 100% true.

So work out, work up a sweat and get St. Peter baptised. And if that doesn't work, you'll be stronger than them anyway. Remember, the steroids are grounds for diminished responsibility. I hope.

Also, since sweat is just diluted piss and sweat is what gets the girl, I recommend you piss all over the tracksuit. I fucking hate tracksuits, they are for cunts.

GET RICH, STUPID

Nothing can get a purchase on a woman's love like an 8" thick wallet. Buy the drinks, buy the bar, buy her shiny things. And before you know it, you'll be eating ham sandwiches out of her cleavage. I hear that's what you like anyway, you sick fuck.

Remember this simple rule; pence get piss, pounds get pussy. You won't go far wrong.

FAST CARS

People write this point off as stupid, but there is nothing a fine-ass, high-titted filly likes better than being ridden hard around town in a sporty little number. Cruise along with your doors unlocked and it's guaranteed that some hot, horny piece of whoopdiggery will hop in and be sucking the chrome off your gearstick within minutes. Best to buy a new one sharpish, those things rust. Or maybe you'll just get carjacked, whatever.

Failing this, get a piece of shit car and stick bits of plastic all over it - remember that girls don't know shit about cars.

THE PACK RULE
It's a well known fact that goth chicks only sleep with goths, skaters only sleep with skaters and emos only sleep with emus. It's Actually, I have no idea what an emo is, I just wanted to look hip. And I don't know what hip means either, except that my dad had a plastic one...but I digress. The pack that sleeps together stays together - basic hunter/gatherer psychology.

The best option is to work out a rota of outfits and worldviews, then tweak your look each day. Et voila, 7 days of weirdo pussy, week in, week out:

So by now, you're beating birds off with a shitty stick, or they're beating your shitty stick off. And if not, give up. Either jerk off our just kill yourself.

Everyone is so "taboo" about jerking off and suicide. Hell, even monkeys do it. All of you grow up, grow some balls and get whacking (either yourself or off, it doesn't make a fucking difference to me).

With Love (Hopefully),
Peter.

Birthdays Are For Cunts

2006-05-10T10:38:00.000Z

Well, after spending last year thinking I was 2x*, I actually am now 2x. And I couldn't care less. Measuring time is a load of bollocks and watching a number click up by one has never been a hobby of mine**.

A second can seem to take an eternity to tick by (and that's a long fucking time if you bother to look it up). Don't believe me? Jump off a fucking building and see. An hour can pass in an instant. Take a nap and tell me otherwise. So fuck birthdays and fuck pretending to give a shit about them, they are for cunts.

However I did do a little checkup on how those seconds are taking their toll on me. All things considered, I'm doing pretty well for someone who has a £20 bet with SB that I won't make it past 30:

Right wrist that can't lift any real weight after drunken accident.
Right arm that can't reach behind back after drunken accident.
Right little toe broken and not quite healed properly.
Right hip and knee cunted after years of being fallen on, causing "retard's limp" throughout winter..
3 "laughter" lines under each eye from years of undersleeping/overdrinking***.
Chipped left canine after...fuck only knows what.
2 Permanent scars on left arm from cigarette burns.

That's not bad at all. I bet plenty of people who have never fallen out of a moving car or tried to drink a flaming sambuca whilst it was still alight in their lives are far worse off than that. Those poor stupid fuckers.

Interesting that it's always my right side that gets raped, something to do with being left handed I guess. Or having deeply repressed homo tendencies whilst simultaneously wanting to nail my mum, or some shit like that, probably.

PS If you don't hear from me ever again, it's because I died at the wheel of the Ferrari 355 I'm going to be driving tomorrow. I have a mild sense of foreboding about the whole thing, given my past record of behaving like a complete lunatic in fast cars. I made a guy who owned a Porsche cry once. Which serves him right for buying kraut shite, really.

* This is not a Roman numeral joke, Ok?
** It is for the same reason that same reason that I believe New Year's Eve to be for cunts, as well as a guaranteed shitty night for drinking.
*** Yes, I own a mirror to notice this. Fuck you.

My Utterly Valid And Not At All Suspect Life Path

2006-05-04T18:47:00.000Z

Your Life Path Number is 1

Your purpose in life is to lead others.

Whether it be off a cliff, into a big vat of boiling water or just the path of a speeding car, you lead like a tiger. A leadership trained tiger with a basic grasp of the English language admittedly, but a tiger none the less.

You have great drive and determination, but only when drunk. Nothing is going to stand in your way, unless they dig up your garage and find all those dead hookers. You seek out alcohol and the taste of fresh human flesh with a relentless passion that lesser beings may label as "clinically insane".

Status and success are unimportant to you. You demand the best from everyone and everything and are constantly surprised to find the world is populated almost entirely by useless fucktards who would be better used to make rope and various car parts. At least you were surprised, until you made a note of this fact on your right hand ten years ago, which you have not washed since.

In love you tend to take a protective role, even going so far as to freeze your "girlfriend" to avoid her ageing. Hopefully in the future, technology will be invented to thaw and revitalise her. As well as reattaching her head and limbs, obviously.

You expect others to be like you, and as a result you are often looking over your shoulder and ducking into shop doorways to make sure you aren't being followed. A little selfish and vain, you always put yourself first. Which is actually more than a little selfish and vain, you arrogant little piece of shit.

Remember, everyone already knows you're great - you only need to keep reminding them of this until they build that 2000 foot tall gold statue of you on the moon.

What Is Your Life Path Number?

Actually, that was quite uncanny. How the fuck did it know?

Betterplan

2006-05-03T11:49:00.000Z

Jesus christ. Watching this piece of shit was like fucking a dead goat. You know it's wrong and you don't really like it, but you keep going in the vain hope that there will be a big payoff at the end.

But there isn't and all you are left with is bits of goat stuck to your dick. Fuck knows how they got into the DVD player in the first place, but such is life.

I'm not going to explain the plot or review the film as such. If you trust me, just steer clear. I knew better than to watch it but I did it anyway, I can spot a bad film a mile away and this ticked all the boxes. I took a risk and I paid the price, which was a lot more than the cost of the DVD.

Although I was laughing when that bitch was running around a plane in what can only be described as a "comatose panic" at the thought of losing her kid. Fuck, I'd look more worried than that if I lost my beer in a toilet. And you know it still has to be in there somewhere. I'm not sure "concern" comes into the lives of millionaire actresses too often.

So, I came up with a better plan. I gave it to my little sister as a birthday present.

Yeah, fuck you. She might like it. Chicks dig shit films.

She's a much more tolerant person than me.

I'll get her something good next year.

Or just book into hell early.

My brother once gave me "The Office - Series One" two christmases in a row, so I figure siblings are fair game now anyway. Just because we both came out of the same mamma don't mean they gets a break, right?

Goths Are Silly

2006-04-26T10:12:00.000Z

"I want to express my individuality as a person. I reject the basic assumptions and expectations thrust upon us by society. I will live as I want, listen to what music I want and wear what I want.

That everyone who thinks like me dresses in black and dyes their hair purple? It's a...ummm...coincidence. Honest." - Goth 20710473

What a bunch of fucking cunts. Funny people though, I love challenging nihilism by throwing bricks at people and here we find some easy targets. What are they going to do, chase me down the street in those boots?

If you really thought differently to everyone else, you'd be wearing shoes. Because you'd have realised shoes aren't important. They never will be, no matter how big you make the soles or how shiny the steel heels are. Trust me on this.

I have spent most of the last week searching out goths and their depressive ilk on Blogger and telling them to cheer up. It's great sport, I thoroughly recommend it.

P.S. If you came here because there was a comment on your whiny little blog telling you to cheer up, then cheer up, you dimwitted fucktard.

Rambling Diatribe 2

2006-04-13T18:51:00.000Z

PO'P NOTE: First posted at www.ihateyoubecause.com. That will be all.

As Saddam Hussein is quietly beaten into a pulpy mess of towel and evil-dictator-mush, we (by which, I mean the U.K. media) begins a desperate search for another bogeyman to batter its citizens with. Iran made a brief appearance, in the role of Saddam II (can someone please explain to me why only Britain, America and a few others are allowed to have nukes? PeterOPhile@Gmail.com), but a group of fiends much more terrible than could ever have been imagined trumps them, leaping up and grasping our once beautiful free world firmly in their beady gaze.

I can hear them now, plotting outside my window. When will their reign of terror start? Today? In two days time? Yesterday? Who knows.

But I do know this for sure, the birds are evil bringers of the apocalypse. And they’re bringing it right to your doorstep. Or chimney. They will swoop down upon us and flap their foul wings at us before coughing in our faces until the human race is enslaved…by death.

In more rational moments though, I can only wonder how bird flu arriving on our shores is a surprise to anyone who doesn’t read The Sun.

Stop press: birds can fucking fly! They don’t need a bird passport, bird ID card and have to hand in their bird nail scissors at customs, they can just hop into the air and pop over here. No really, they can, Mr Sun Reader.

Frankly, I’m quite looking forward to it. I can already see the sun readers of this country on the verge of hysteria. People watching is far more fun than bird watching, especially given that most birds are a) cleverer than the average sun reader, and b) shortly to be dead. I can imagine it now:

“Is…that…is that…an emu in that tree? Is…it’s heading this way. AAAAARGH! It looked at me! Take me to A&E right this instant!”
“No, that’s just a carrier bag stuck in the branches. Shut the fuck up and put some fresh plasters on your knuckles.”

You don’t see carrier bags in trees anymore – The Sun is right about one thing, the country is going to the dogs. Except obviously, they blame the Muslims, when in reality it’s ASDA’s fault for making such shitty cheap carriers.

Why is it called bird flu, anyway? Would a week in bed with a hot water bottle and lemsip sort the poor little bastards out? Do older birds get a free jab on the NHS? I don’t know, it seems a little odd to me.

Speaking of flying, I have to do it the hard way in a few weeks time. Sadly, I won’t be soaring free as a (non-dying) eagle, I’ll be crammed onto some EasyAir piece of shit flight to Budapest (which I notice is, rather inconsiderately about to turn into Atlantis).

I hate flying. I hate the noisy kids, I hate the shitty food and tiny beers. I hate the miniscule space you’re crammed into (maybe they think we’re all two foot tall). I hate the foul air and the fact that you can’t smoke within 200 miles of an aeroplane but you can get on the fucker six months after you last washed. I hate that you can’t point out to security guards when they’re being inbred retard jobsworth cunts (approx 97% of the time) without ending up walking like John Wayne. I hate them losing your bags, opening your bags and jerking off on your only pair of clean boxers and stealing your teabags. I hate it when it takes four hours to get your bags off a plane you can see sitting 200 yards away the one time when they don’t lose them. I hate literally everything about flying, except getting home from the whole ordeal.

But what I am not, is scared of flying. I refuse to be. Planes are so ridiculously safe nowadays that they are terribly boring. In fact, you’re 812% more likely to be killed by the jobsworth dipshit wanker of a security inspector with your own corkscrew than die on the plane itself. That’s true, that is.

So why is it, that as the jets power up for takeoff, the primitive monkey brain starts to make an appearance.

“Aaaaargh fuck shit cunt fuck fuck pissy whore fuck AIDS dildo shitrape what the fucking shit fucking hell is happening? I can’t fly, I’m a fucking monkey. Help me the fuck off this fucking thing!”
“No, calm down. Only 0.007% of planes crash. You fought off the security guard with the pencil sharpener, you’re home free. Be calm, primitive monkey brain.”
“Fuck shit wanking cunt bollocks I can’t fly. I’m a ground monkey. Jesus we’re in the fucking air fuck arse penile leakage eeeek eeeek eeeeeeek!”

And the next thing you know, you’re waving your banana in an “aggressive manner” and throwing faeces around.

Sadly, the judge didn’t accept that explanation either, which is why I can never fly Lufthansa again. Maybe next time, I’ll claim I caught bird flu from a McChicken sandwich and hope that he’s a sun reader.

Rambling Diatribe 1

2006-03-16T19:38:00.000Z

PO'P NOTE: First published at www.ihateyoubecause.com, I'm still a bit undecided as to what this site should be for...

So, as our retarded media warms up the Dianafication bus, ready for the first death in the human lab-rat turned lab-elephant scandal, I wonder why the fuck this is news.

Look at its basic components - drugs test to make sure drug doesn't affect humans, finds drug does affect humans. Hmmmm. Fuck me, that's a shocker.

I do like the way they're being described as volunteers though. Yeah, just like I volunteered to do my job. Paid volunteers...not volunteers, dipshits.

They should really be making the best of it - big swollen headed people that have turned purple? I say wheel them down to the nearest shopping centre and put some kids off Ribena. You'll thank me in two years when your kids have still got fucking teeth.

But it is the ugly spectacle of Dianasteria, all over again. Do you remember that shitty story about the dog that stopped crying, or dancing, or some other dull shit the same day Diana died? I sure as fucking hell do, you couldn't avoid the cunt unless you set fire to your TV (an action I later had to take).

Well, that makes a total of two dogs that never danced after that day. It may seem harsh, but I'm sick of this celebrity fancying crap. Some people have a celebrity scale and a normal people scale for scoring totty (I mean that in the rating stakes, not cutting lines down them. For now.). Now try claiming that this is the bollocks that it so clearly is.

"I don't fancy Diana. She looks a bit mannish to me."
"Hur, hur, you must be gay!"
"Yeah, I don't fancy someone who looks a bit blokey. Gay, you got me."
"Hur, faggot. Queer."
"O.....K....."

Cameron Diaz, Britney Spears. Actually look at them. Christ, I'm the gay one?

Britney or my refrigerator...Britney, fridge...Britney, fridge...Hmmm, looks like my girlfriend can keep my beers cold. Come to Peter, baby.

I think we've got to break it off though, last week I chipped a tooth on her vegetable crisper.

"Yeah, fridgey? It's not you...it's me."

What a fucking stupid thing to say. It's not me? Well, then dump yourself, you stupid cunt! Honestly, you vacuous jizztrap whore. Of course it's me, we've only been talking for thirty seconds and I've already called you a cunt and a vacuous jizztrap whore.

Why not just be honest?
It's me, not you...in that I can't stand to be in the same room as you for more than ten seconds at a time. I know that's long enough for you, but I just need...more.

But lets still be friends, yeah?
Yeah, right. You just told me you didn't like me. If we can still be friends, we can still be friends who fuck, surely? When were we friends, anyway, I only met you yesterday. And when did you learn to speak English?

So let's be honest. Look, I like you, it's just that you look like a big fucking ribena berry and my friends keep laughing at me behind my back. We're going to have to spend some time apart, unless they invent a cure for failed drug tests, Ok? Now get off my fucking porch and stop calling me, or I will bump you back to 200 yards, you're scaring the fucking kids.

Fucking people.

Vague Apologies

2006-02-23T21:35:00.000Z

I went on a drunken rampage using the "next blog" button yesterday, a few people got set straight.

Never mind, those who got abuse were cunts and deserved every letter. Especially annoying were the ones who had removed the "next" button from their page. They are never, ever, the blog you want to stop on. Even for a second. Tossers.

EDIT: To those people I (hear I) was being remarkably polite to, I guess you either got lucky this time or can actually write something interesting/legible and thus not piss off casual visitors. Yay you!

www.ihateyoubecause.com

Fuck, That Was An Intermission And A Half

2006-01-26T09:18:00.000Z

Yeah, I've been busy. With two things, really (other than the obvious things such as drinking, jerking off and abusing people which actually take up 95% of my free time).

The second is this:
http://www.ihateyoubecause.com

This is my new site, which will hold all my bitching and whining, allowing me to concentrate on more life based stuff here.

The first is this:

Yeah, I'm going to prison. I've been shooting the shit out of stuff almost constantly for the last two weeks and now I'm getting a taste for blood. If nobody comes to mind, I'll end up shooting myself in the arm "just to see". I can spot it coming a mile off, yet I am unable to jump off the train and roll into the safety of some bushes. Help me - email PeterOPhile@Gmail.com and let me shoot you instead.

In other news, I've blown my back out and am sitting bolt upright at my desk, looking like a complete cunt today. It's going to be a long fucking week.

Peter O'Phile: An Ans Du Scat

2005-12-06T11:24:00.000Z

I'm still fully filled with AIDS, so get the red fucking ribbons out. Seriously, I am still coughing up my fucking lungs and snotting shit a month after getting a cold. Immune system? Deficient? Quelle surprise!

On the bright side, occasionally I blow shit out of my nose and there's blood in it, which is always a fucking awesome experience. Unless you're a fucking faggot of some sort and hate the sight of your own blood. It wouldn't surprise me, wimpy dick shit balls that you all undoubtedly are.

Anyway, to avoid the need for any kind of coherent thought and/or writing, here is the Peter O'Phile pictorial - an ans du scat:

GB Fails To Hack The Pace

SB Fails To Stop Eating

Accidental Self-Harm Is Not A Cry For Help

Targeted Marketing

Looks Like Someone Needed A Shit Real Bad

Some Retard Left A Crayon In The Pub. Some Retards Found It

Human Buckaroo With SB

Fuck You

Blue Tack On Wall By Peter O'Phile

GB Does A Great Job

Medical Trials On SB's Hormone Replacement Patches

Not A Great Post

2005-11-09T09:39:00.000Z

Fucking shit dildo crap basket faggot hotel bullshit. I'm not big on sounding like a whiny little bitch but I've been ill for the last three bastard fucking weeks. Nothing serious but even a cold, combined with a healthy nicotine intake, can lead to some interesting coughing and breathing issues.

As a result, I haven't slept properly in about two weeks. I look like a fucking panda bear skeleton, with my huge sunken eyes (only slightly worse than usual) and everything I see is painted through a thin film of grey and viewed from inside a fog of dull irritation (as opposed to the usual sharp anger). Thanks to this ongoing AIDS situation, everything I've written for this place recently has been too shit to even consider posting. Which means I'm going to have to go back and rewrite a whole load of cock at some point. Cuntballs.

In other news, I woke up this morning to find a shed load of fucking huge rolls of loft insulation on my front garden, they are now filling up the entire entrance hall to my house and most of the stairs. Delivered by mistake. I find myself wondering why shit like this doesn't seem to happen to other people. I haven't found any decent conclusion as yet (see the bit about how tired I am).

In other, other news, fucking Firefox just crashed. This is the second time I've spazzed out this cock load of jizz bubbles. The first fucking time I've seen it happen and typically, I hadn't saved. Proof that the world is made of cunts and shit after all.

Achtung!

2005-10-18T15:43:00.000Z

A long queue of people lines up in small groups down one side down of an industrial looking concrete corridor approaching a single steel door which is currently ajar. The air is thick with cold, dust and fear-sweat, as the mostly silent atmosphere is cut by the coughs and sneezes of a thousand malnourished people echoing around on the bare walls.

A group of around three hundred victims are counted off by a uniformed guard to go through the door as further soldiers watch on impassively, machine guns ready in their arms and safety catches off, alert eyes scanning the crowd. This is the time when panic can spread and good bullets be wasted.

The group shuffles forward, understandably there is no sense of hurry in the crowd. Once they are inside, the door is promptly shut, leaving them in a brightly lit, clean room with a drain in the middle and few other features. In turn, they are ordered to strip and allow the guards to remove their possessions. Once nude, the male and female captives all look alike, a small series of numbers tattooed on their fragile looking arms, individual ribs standing out proudly from their feeble chests, legs as thin as saplings somehow supporting even such a meagre weight.

A tall, dark haired man is next to be attended to, hollow, darkened eyes hidden behind a pair of spectacles, which glow unnaturally in the glare of the powerful shower room lights. A soldier approaches, then motions downward with his gun and mutters something indistinguishable.

The man slowly begins to unbutton his dirty, worn shirt, looking his tormentor squarely in the face all the time he does so. The guard, perhaps sensing the eyes upon him, raises his gaze to meet the man's. His steely blue eyes appraise his captive and a small smile crosses his lips, before he nods quickly to to himself and opens his mouth to speak.

"Sie können gehen" he barks, indicating with his gun towards the exit door at the far end of the chamber, which seems to shine with yellow light as the strong sunshine burns down on the outside world.

The man hesitates in his confusion. Why has he been singled out? Did he do something wrong?

"Schnell", the soldier is insistent and not a little confused. The words jolt the man into movement, and he bolts from the room to the exercise yard outside.

The guard, face returning to its more customary Teutonic seriousness, moves on to the next prisoner, a young woman, cheeks and eye sockets shrunken to holes, giving her face the appearance of an animated skull.

"Das clothing. Off" the warder says firmly.

The woman glances at the door, now closed by the departing escapee.

"But...vhy?" she breathes.
"Ju shouldst have gone to das Specsavers" the guard murmurs, before removing her glasses and flinging them onto the pile of similar items in the corner of the room.

Myself and SB intend to pitch this idea to the relevant advertising company, we will either become super-millionaires or be chased from the room by attack dogs. Watch this space...

Not Dead

2005-10-12T15:18:00.000Z

In my university days, this would be the most common email subject I would use when conversing with my mother. Usually it was because I had forgotten to call her for around a month and was too drunk to call that day.

By usually, I mean "for the entire four years". Peter is a bad son.

However, as a little more detail than she used to get, if you saw two guys lying flat on their backs in the middle of Nottingham's Market Square at 03:00 one Saturday recent morning, you saw Peter O'Phile. It was SB's idea, but we worked together on the concept out over the course of an hour or so. Dumb fucks.

The two very different approaches to "guests" stumbling past were quite impressive too:

G: What are you doing lying on the floor?
SB: We're looking at the stars. Join us.
G: (Looks up and sees overcast sky) No.

G: What are you doing down there?
PO'P: Fuck off, cunt.

In fairness to SB's hippy approach, a couple of people did sit with us for a while. Until I got abusive, of course.

Proper post soon, I've been busy. This shit mountain won't build itself you know.

A Moment Of Reflection (Part 2)

2005-09-30T18:21:00.000Z

The car hits 100 mph as the black and white sign indicating that you are now only breaking the speed limit by a fair amount flashes past. The road stretches ahead in a gentle left hand bend. It's been raining but the asphalt surface is dry, only the white lines dividing the lanes to worry about. You turn in softly, throttle gently balanced and engine revving hard in fourth gear. Look around the corner, careful not to twitch the steering wheel, smoothly does it. The car glides, as happy to be driven hard as an inanimate object can be. The slight undulations on the floor feed back perfectly through the suspension to your hands as you let the car drift to the inside on the camber.

Unseen, the trees ahead have been dripping rainwater onto the ground, leaving the surface at the apex of the turn wet. The front wheels spot this problem first, the controls going dead and the front of the car inching to the right. Off the power, let the weight of the car help things out. The back wheels catch the slippy surface and slowly, slowly, the back of the car edges outwards, towards a spin and the suddenly all too close trees on the wrong side of the tracks.

A little opposite lock, hold the wheel firmly as it tries to kick and scrabble for grip. Get the power on, don't bottle this one for fuck's sake.

You have time to reflect on what music is in the CD player. Fuck, I'm going to look a faggot when they pull bits of that out of my face. Blasting through the countryside whilst listening to chick music must be removed from my to do list in future. I'm not wearing clean underwear but fuck it, this isn't one of those waking up in Casualty moments. This is the Big One, always somewhere ahead. I wonder what would happen if I just let go of the wheel, let the god of Physics steer the ship and the chips fall where they may?

Never one to back down from a challenge, you decide against it.

The tail of the car remains a few stubborn degrees out of line, dragging the action closer to the white lines that mark safety from the danger of an oncoming car. A Rover. I refuse to hit a fucking Rover, come back to me you bastard. A little more lock, you'll have to watch out for it coming back round the other way now. Come on you fucking piece of shit, straighten out and fly right. A millimetre at a time, the recalcitrant bastard does as it's told.

Straighten the wheel, back on the power, up to fifth and away, Peter lives to fight another day. Humanity and God breathe a sigh of disappointment. So does Peter.

Strangebuys

2005-09-22T09:08:00.000Z

A popular hobby of mine is buying strange items and watching the checkout monkey's reaction to my purchases. Wait, it's not a hobby, I just have a strange existence and often end up well outside the realms of buying a trolley full of ready meals and twenty mars bars.

I've kept track of some of the stranger sets of items I've bought over the years and decided to list them for your entertainment. Frankly, it worries even me. These shopping trips occurred due to seemingly normal circumstances and at the time, seemed perfectly reasonable but to an impartial observer, it probably doesn't look good.

100 black bin bags and a bottle of good champagne (get drunk and get burying, fool).
One 9" kitchen knife, An empty squirt bottle and 3 bottles of Red Bull (The Saturday Night).
3 bottles red bull, 1 bottle vodka, 1 pair yellow rubber gloves (The Fight Club).
One bottle of cheap champagne after the London bombings. (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/in_depth/uk/2005/london_explosions/default.stm). Whilst queuing for this I thought it would be amusing to mutter "durka durka jihad mohammed" occasionally. I was right.
12 tubs of baby food, 10 pot noodle type snacks and 20 Marlboro reds (The Chav) The baby food was not for Peter, just so's you know.
2 packets of laxatives, 2 bottles of Red Bull, one large packet of toilet roll (The Friday Night).

As a side note, I would recommend against taking twice the suggested dosage of laxatives the day before you have to go to work as it seems to delay the effects somewhat. I'd forgotten all about taking them at around lunchtime one day, when the scat explosion took hold of me. This resulted in my having 8 fully formed, bowel bursting turd explosions within the space of around three hours, whilst my colleagues wondered what the fuck was going on. On second thoughts, I fully recommend this approach.

As another aside, visit the BBC tribute to those killed in the London bombings and try to pick out the ones you'd fuck if they were alive (or just intact). It makes me feel a strange kind of tingle deep inside my cold dead soul.

Peter's House Fucking Reeks Of AIDS

2005-09-06T18:58:00.000Z

Fuck, my place stinks like a retard's ass the morning after a hard day of eating rubber bands and bits of string off the floor.

I've done the two week old dishes and taken out the two week old bin-bags full of decomposing babies and horse anuses, I've even scraped all the out of date food from the fridge (fight club anyone).

Yet still, walking into the Hotel Du Scat reminds me of the week I ate a Pizza Hut meal and accidentally shat it out into the washing machine instead of the bin, then washed my clothes in the rancid, bad pizza based shit.

I guess that having eliminated everything else, it must either be the puke down the side of the oven from last Friday's adventures or my shit-ridden clothes. Both are going to take quite some effort cleaning up.

Oh and by "adventures" I do mean "sitting alone in the dark, playing on a PS2 and drinking neat vodka because I was too hungover to go and buy any mixers". Sometimes even being Peter can seem to suck to the impartial observer, although I enjoyed the experience thoroughly. Takes all sorts, I guess.

Oh yeah and Pizza Hut; you fucking suck and it's your fault my fucking trousers are covered in fecal matter. Well, some of it, but I digress. Your pizzas are utter shit and you should hang your fucking heads in filthy shame.

Writer's Cock

2005-08-23T10:23:00.000Z

Don't piss in your dirty little panties you filthy whores, I've been on a shitty fucking holiday and will get back to documenting my sordidly dull life presently.

In the meantime, here's a picutre of what the M1 looks like at 120 mph.

And one of what happens when Peter is left unattended for a few minutes.

And one of a really fucking fat bitch.

It's a bit like Pictionary, ins't it?

Peter O'Phile's Tramp O'Files (God, I'm So Sorry For The Title)

2005-08-01T09:01:00.000Z

As with almost everything else in this universe, the homeless and Peter O'Phile do not mix well. Many an unwitting societal parasite has made the mistake of asking Peter for money and instead paid out a little of whatever self respect they had to give. Nothing they can eat, either way.

Peter O'Phile And The Chip Shop Beggar:
A brief stop for necessary fuel during a mammoth drinking session ended badly for one street-living oxygen waste as myself, SB and JL stood eating some chips.

ST: "'Scuse me lads but I've been trying to get a bag of chips all night..."
PO'P: (Interrupting) "Well thank fuck you found us. They're in there." (Points into chip shop)
ST: "..."

The hapless street-wanderer stood silently as first SB then JL turned away from him in fits of laughter. I continued to stare at him until he turned and walked slowly away. A sore on the festering cock that is humanity, I hoped he fell under a bus at the nearest junction.

Peter O'Phile Gets A Taste Of His Own Medicine:
One sunny afternoon I was walking through town, already intensely irritated as I needed to get passport photographs taken, an activity I had arbitrarily decided I hated. The usual "I got mugged and need 30p to get home" street artist approached and gained my attention.

ST: "Oh, thanks for stopping, you're the first person who's spoken to me today."
PO'P: "You were just talking to that pair." (Points at couple walking away).
ST: "Yeah, you and them are the only people to have stopped."
ST: "I don't know if you can help me but thanks for stopping..." (Tramp begins his heartbreaking tale of love lost, buses gone by and money needed)

At this point I tried to think of something funny and abusive to interrupt this leech with. Sadly, I experienced the familiar scenario of drawing a blank. Thirty seconds later I had still not spoken a word since the fucktard started talking at me. I decided to see how long his bullshit story could go before he ran out of begging phrases.

ST: "Help me out...Chuck a few pence my way...Send you a cheque when I get home...etc...etc"

Approximately three minutes into the speech the poor little street urchin started to tail off.

ST: "So...er...er...can you give me any money then?"
PO'P: "Oh! No." (Starts to walk away)
ST: (Somewhat irritated and shouting) "You ugly fucking cuntbag shit fucking time bastard wasting..."

In all fairness to this worthless piece of scum, it was an impressive display of constructive swearing. A good 20-30 people stopped to see who this mad smelly guy had decided to vent his spleen on. I walked away, laughing like a little girl.

SB Takes The Baton:
One nice sunny afternoon a few of us were sitting, drinking and discussing homosexual rape as usual on the terrace of a favourite Nottingham bar. We were approached by a now familiar sight - a dirty looking man holding a rolled up newspaper in a parody of a microphone. He then proceeded to reel out around five minutes of awful stand-up to our group. Not being a fan of the sit around and beg scavenger, I am decidedly less found of those who have the audacity to bother people when they are enjoying a quiet drink. Or any kind of drink for that matter - fuck them, they should all swing by their dirty fucking necks.

However, this time it was SB who (briefly) became a hero in this situation.

ST: "Only four fingers hahahaha...Seriously though,"
SB: "Excuse me mate. What the fuck do you think you're fucking doing? Get the fuck away from this table."

The little shit's body language changed instantly from confident stand-up comedian guy to whining, beaten dog guy. I laughed like a drunken drain as he dragged his stinking carcass away. SB soon spoiled this great work but I'm not going to recount that bit as it distresses me.

Mr Blues Ain't So Happy:
A famous Nottingham figure is the "Blues Man" who busks around the city centre on Saturday nights - with an electric guitar, portable amplifier and microphone, he cuts a professional figure. He also has clearly not hit the cardboard ceiling, making me like him rather more than most buskers. Being rather a fan of the blues myself and in a somewhat cheery mood one night, I approached the man with a shiny pound coin.

PO'P: "Hey, do you know any John Lee Hooker tunes?"
BM: (In a thick (possibly) Jamaican accent and without stopping his song) "No - fuck off mon."

Priceless.

Wide Of The Mark Book Review: Catch-22

2005-07-20T09:41:00.000Z

I fucking love books, I must have about 14 of them by now. When I'm sober, straight and not too tired (and of course, not fucking that hole I cut into my mattress), I like nothing better than to curl up and read the shit out of one of my books.

To express my love and eternal dedication to this often overlooked art form, I've decided to do a series of book reviews on this site. I'll start with my 12th favourite, Catch-22.

Catch-22 - What's The Catch?
Most of the action in this book (such as there is) takes place on an American bomber base either on the Island of Pianosa, famous for not being anywhere near big enough to hold a bomber squadron, or the Island of Pisona, famous for not existing. In many ways, this strange duality is a running theme throughout the book, so perhaps I didn't need to invent an example of it by getting the island name wrong. Never mind, let's continue.

The anti-hero of the book (I haven't seen the film so can't comment on that) is one Joseph Yossarian - note that the character's first name is similar to that of Josep "Baby Eater" Stalin. Is this intentional? It seems unlikely, as this book doesn't deal with Communism in any way. An interesting side-point though.

Note that the author of the book, J. Yossarian actually spent time in WWII flying bomber planes and so it is highly likely that Mr. Heller is Yossarian. In which case, it would seem wise to avoid dinner parties with him as he is barking mad. By which I mean a fucking fruit-loop. As is common with many semi-autobiographical novels, one is intended to grow a fondness for the lead character, demonstrated when many of the strange things Yossarian does are explained by the narrator in perfectly sensible terms. Was this the introduction of the so called "super-anti-hero" or would that just be utter fucking bullshit? I don't know.

Yossarian is a captain in the previously mentioned bomber group - the 256th Squadron. Note that this is some sort of weird hexadecimal joke that I don't quite understand, highlighted for the idiots by the author using the line "two to the fighting eighth power". This has something to do with the number 100 but the real message is clear - computers (thinking as they do only in hexadecimal) will one day take over the world with their evil robot bombers.

Considering that this book was written in the 20th century, this is a hugely impressive prediction from the author and he could be considered ahead of his time in shouting out the warning of upcoming world doom at the hands of misanthropic metal monsters, if one were so inclined.

Now to the main point of the book, The Catch, Catch-All or Catch-22 as it is referred. This is clearly another metaphor for the robots, which take on the guise of all authority - the police, Yossarian's superiors and Religion. With these influences under their control, human will is reduced to zero and slowly but surely the evil tin men's plan continues. The book ends with a truly apocalyptic vision in chapter 39, when all the whores have been chased out of Rome by The Catch (the robots). A frightening concept should it ever bear fruit.

Sadly, Catch-22 offers no solution to this dilemma. What a fucking lazy prick the author is. It really saddens me - anybody can criticise, not everyone can offer a solution. I can only suggest that the book should be rewritten to include a solution to The Catch.

Another important theme is that of personal integrity - such as Milo refusing to steal supplies from the base without a highly twisted justification of doing so, in order that his conscience is clear. Later in the book Milo even bombs his own base, having been entirely corrupted by the greed that really runs the war. I'm not sure how this ties into the killer machines, perhaps it is simply a passing comment that mankind is destined to fail due to his own failings or something clever like that.

In summary, Catch-22 is quite a good book and I would recommend it alot to anyone who likes books.

Biting The Hand That Feeds PO'P

2005-07-15T13:38:00.000Z

I have been busy with some contract work for Phones 4 U lately and would like to say that anybody suggesting the following:

They are all stinky heads with arses made of rotting garbage.
Are in league with the Masons and running a scam to control the UK populace.
Are made of metal (underneath their ugly, ugly face masks) and programmed to kill.

Will have me to answer to. Furthermore, nobody should avoid buying phones from incompetent dung sluts with tenuous grasps on reality, little to no customer service and a penchant for buggery of small animals. Categorically, nobody should buy off the internet instead.

I even buy my cigarettes via the internet, well outside of what I'd normally consider fair play, as the NHS will have to stump up the costs of leaving my cancer and AIDS ridden corpse in a dirty bed in a dirty ward to die at some point, short my generous contributions to their coffers.

However, when I can buy tabs from elsewhere in Europe, pay tax on them there, have them packed up and shipped over here for half the price I can pay over the counter, I say "fuck you, new labour, go hang your fucking shitty heads in shame at the mess you're making of this place, you utter fucking wankers."

Then I light up a Marlboro Red from a packet with the health warning printed on in what, for all I know is fucking Aramaic, open a bottle of vodka and let the good times roll. Before muttering some more about our shitty government that some unknown fucker voted in and how much I hate Phones 4 U. Oh, and everybody else on this fucking shitheap we call Earth.

Peter's Fall From Grace

2005-07-07T15:14:00.000Z

PO'P NOTE: In the "there's always one" tradition, there's always one story that you can't find a good way of telling so that it winds up funny, entertaining, or even pukeworthy. That's this one. I've tried four or five times and the end result always reads like a Jamie Oliver cookbook - absolute fucking shit dished up by some cockney wanker on a scooter, who will be up against the wall as soon as I get a minute spare. But it's getting on my tits, so here goes again.

At the end of the second year at university, the time had come to fly the nest and move out of the large shit-factory we had called home since starting our courses. Proper, real houses were found, rented off dodgy shitbag landlords who you suspected you would one day find stalking round your place, searching through the women's underwear drawers. I was only in there looking for a pen - he was up to no good. But I digress.

The moving experience was somewhat lengthened when the back window of our shitmobile (my car) was inadvertently smashed by AB. Stupid fucking whore. This forced me to stay in the old place for one last night of drinking and ultimately caused my downfall. Exit Peter - off for a drink.

Some hours later, somewhat lubricated I returned to the building and decided that a souvenir was required. A large sign on the wall of the property seemed ideal - its location around 10 feet up in the air just made things interesting.

The first stage of the mission was a perfect success - I rested a divan bed base against the wall, climbed on top and unscrewed the bottom two screws. The action moved on to the top screw - fuck, it was rusted solid and I quickly turned the head into little metal shavings.

LE and his car swiftly came to the rescue and a rope was attached to both the sign and LE's bumper. LE revved his engine and slowly drove away. The rope took the strain. The sign creaked. The rope snapped and flashed past me like a dead goldfish off a motorway bridge and towards LE's car. A new plan was formed.

Climbing the bed base one more time, I grasped the sign firmly in both hands and pulled like fuck. Pulled a little more. Pulled, to quantify, really fucking hard. Finally I was the victor - the target was in my arms. A short-lived joy ensued.

Realising that I now had no purchase on the wall and a fair amount of momentum away from it, I did the only sensible thing and fell down onto the concrete car park floor. This hurt far less than I expected and also seemed to result in my being unable to get up. Still, some panicking females helped me back into the house, where MW kindly assured me that my wrist was fine.

It is a sign of how fucked up I was at that point that I listened to him, as he is a well known retard and normally not a doctor. I set him on fire once and it took around 30 seconds for him to even notice, never mind react. Still, Dr MW's advice heeded, I bent the broken wrist backwards to fit it into a bowl of warm water, passed out, then woke up and popped off to bed.

This was immediately followed by a night without sleep thanks to the now agonising pain in my arm. I got a total of 10 minutes rest that night when I tied a bag of frozen peas around my arm - the pain subsided and I started to snooze. Then get cold and wet as the frozen peas fell out of the open bag and into my bed.

When I eventually visited a hospital the next afternoon, the little piece of bone that sticks out just below the base of my (and I'll assume your) thumb had wandered off and camped out in the divot between my little and ring fingers - it actually looked like a little dome tent made of flesh. Sadly, this meant that the nurse had to move it back into place (by pushing like fuck on my arm) before sticking me in plaster.

Oh and some prick of a doctor smacked me on the broken wrist with that big sheet of lead they put over your nuts to stop your jizz getting fried when they X-ray you. I nearly got thrown out of the hospital for trying to "reason" with him. By which I mean throwing the lead sheet at his face.

AB was the only one with enough presence of mind to collect the sign after my fall and still has it to this fucking day. That fucking bitch broke my arm and stole my sign. Justice will ensue one day.

PO'P NOTE: Yup, that telling worked out pretty shitty too. It was a funny story in real life though and I still can't do anything useful with my right arm. Not a thing. Or my left. But that's probably because I'm a useless shitbag who couldn't be fucked if my cock depended on shit, or something, rather than because I broke it.

PO'P EDIT: In light of today's events I can provide a preview of some upcoming articles:

Stupid people should not try to discuss global politics with Peter.
Religion is fucking retarded (and not involved in anything to do with 07/07).
Why did the terrorists kick off on a day we couldn't confuse the yanks with?
People who tenuously use global events to further their cause should fucking hang.

How To Have A Weird Fucking Week

2005-06-07T20:24:00.000Z

Step 1:

Losing your mind slightly, search every room in your house for items you have lost. Decide that they must be in the loft even though you know full well that they aren't up there.

Enter loft, hear unearthly squeaking noises and jump back down from loft.

Return to loft with torch and try to work out how the fuck rats got into the loft and what the fuck they are doing up there.

Realise that rats are up in eaves of roof. Wonder how rats got so high up and what the fuck they are doing up there.

Realise that the rats are in fact, bats. Fucking flying things with teeth.

Do a little research on the internet. Find out that it is now illegal to enter your own loft as the bats own the fucker. No, really.

Decide that the law is an ass and spend an hour or two provoking the bats. Shining the torch straight on them causes a certain amount of consternation and a marked increase in the squeaking noises they emit.

Make mental note not to tell the police of this.

Step 2:

Go on leaving "do" for some fucker from work. Once too drunk to stand up, return home and calmly do some laundry, sleeping on the kitchen floor whilst the machine does its work.

Awake the next day unable to move, never mind return to work.

Resolve never to drink B-52s again as long as you live or remember.

Step 3:

Decide to get an early night as you have to drive six hours to Wales the next day and will be required to rise at around 6am.

Stub little toe on radiator, fracturing it. Do not realise that the toe is fractured (this may prove difficult). If you do realise this, refuse to admit the obvious.

Get no sleep that night as each movement of your foot causes you to wake up in pain.

Resolve not to go to hospital as it is a Bank Holiday Friday and the place will be filled with drunken pikeys missing ears and noses from drunken fighting.

Step 4:

Take on the six hour drive (through country A-roads) on virtually no sleep, with a fractured toe. Do not take any sensible steps such as bandaging up the toe.

Spend the entire weekend arguing with anyone who suggests you should go to hospital. The argument should consist of no more than "I'm not fucking going to hospital".

Spend the rest of your time limping like a drunken village idiot around various Welsh "tourist attractions", swearing loudly each time you put your right foot down.

Also highlight the large numbers of pikeys in the area in a loud voice, even though you know full well you have no way of escaping or defending yourself.

Step 5:

Drive back from Wales with a fractured toe.

At one point, get involved in a race with a motorbike, even though you have worn your brakes down to the point at which they have begun to grind/fade from overuse and you can't press the brake pedal fully down (see step 3). Reason that these two factors cancel each other out. Lose the race after approximately 10 miles of extreme stupidity.

(Yes I am either one double hard, fire-shitting bastard or very determined.)

Step 6:

Whilst on the way to the chip shop for dinner, soil yourself slightly for no apparent reasons.

Continue to chip shop, purchase and eat dinner.

Pictures of the toe you say?

Pictures of the bats you say?

Fuck off - they can fly and have teeth. I'm not going close enough to the freaky fuckers to get involved. Suffice to say that they look a bit like the example above. I heard one mutter something anti-semitic in bat-language too.

Peter O'Phile's Guide To Not Being A Shitlicker

2005-05-26T12:09:00.000Z

People often ask me how I come across as the most mentally stong, dammed fine example of a human being they've ever met. Well actually, they don't because they most often meet me for the first time when I'm slumped on a bar somewhere, crying because the bastards won't play anything by John Lee Hooker and this skews their whole view of me a little.

If they did ask though, my answer would be that I have a set of rules that stand me in good stead. The only times I have ever been in trouble have been when I stepped outside of those rules. Note that they are not fucking girly "guidelines" or cornhole pussy ass "recommendations" but a set of cast iron rules. I've learnt my lesson, which incidentally, is one of my rules.

Life

No Point Crying Over Spilt Milk
When something goes wrong, work out why and what you could have done to solve the problem. Then work out how to recognise the problem before it occurs and how to avoid it ever ocurring again.
Learn your lesson and move on.

Or, sit around fucking crying like a little girl as the judge sends you down for 10 years and realise that you're too fucking retarded for this level of thought. Enjoy your little holiday, dumbass.

Fuck You, You're Out
Never send three texts in a row to someone without a reply. This is pretty much stalking and the person in question must now earn your friendship back. Shortcuts to this do of course include cash donations.

Cunt Cunt Cunt Cunt Cunt
Deliberately offending people is an essential way to test their mettle. Always have an exit plan.

Love

Don't Be A Fucking Retard, Dumbass
Been cheated on? That's the end of that fucking relationship then. Never go back, never look back, if at all possible never even speak to the bitch again - unless it's to highlight why her lack of morals has led to her being burried face down in a fire-ant colony.

Would You Let You Do This To You?
Never let someone else do to you what you wouldn't like to do to yourself (read this carefully you fucking retard). Note that this has no bearing on your treatment of other people who may well let you do what the fuck you want to them.

Liberty

Always Hold The Joker, Wildcard and Anything Else You Can Get
Never trust anyone with knowledge that could send you to prison unless you can repay the favour.

Do It But Do It Right
When breaking the law, leave no evidence or witnesses that are sure enough what happened to testify in court.

School Stories 1

2005-05-19T16:01:00.000Z

It was whilst attending an old fashioned, boys only selective school that PO'P first began to show elements of his true obsessive/compulsive, sociopathic, schizophrenic dumbass nature.

Although little memory remains from this period, the odd nugget of recollection occasionally falls into the stained trousers of the mind. This series will attempt to document some of the events from this period of PO'Ps' life.

Peter O'Phile and the Strawberry Flavoured Rice Paper
Thank God that Karma (and God for that matter) don't exist, otherwise I would be royally fucked for this one. An acquantaince and myself obtained a reasonable quantity of LSD. Wishing to share this with a mutual friend we decided to let him try some new flavoured rice paper from Japan.

"It doesn't taste like strawberries" he said, "Keep it on your tongue then chew it up a bit", we said. That poor dumb bastard flipped out like an ADHD kid on LSD. Which he was. We were 12 or 13 years old at the time.

The Cable Guy
I'm not 100% clear on the technical details of this one but it sure made a big flame and caused plenty of damage. An electrical ring main (I believe) carries electricity rated at a higher power than normal extension cables and their ilk. Having some experience with electric shocks and fires, I can confirm that the results were certainly greater than a normal 240V cable shorting out.

Bored one lunchtime I noticed a cable running along the wall inside a classroom. The only sensible option seemed to be to pull on it a little and see what happened. It had been painted over many, many times and gave way with a satisfying crack. I pretended to windsurf using it - hanging on and leaning back, when I heard a further cracking noise. Inspection revealed that the cable had split and I could see bare wires. Spotting the danger (to my liberty) I attempted to return the cable to its original position. There was a bang, quickly followed by a bright green flame and strange buzzing noise. I stepped backwards and turned away quickly, instantly blinded by the light. After what seemed like a minute or two but was more likely 10 seconds or so the noise stopped. The entire wall was blackened and scorched. As was my right hand, up to the wrist. Fuck only knows how I escaped that one without serious injury.

Bad Decisions In Wales
Take a field trip to wales, camp in the hills, cook for yourselves and walk 30 miles over the weekend were the instructions. Get loaded and cause trouble was my interpretation. We were provided with Trangia stoves but no fuel. Minutes before leaving I realised I had no methylated spirits but plenty of White Spirits which would, if anything burn even hotter. Quick food, I thought. A couple of days later whilst burning scrambled eggs and drinking vodka I realised that flames were coming out of the top of the cooker and getting somewhat out of control.

In a flash of inspiration, I realised that kicking the cooker over was the only option. Unexpectedly the excessive amounts of white spirits I had poured into the thing quickly soaked into the dry peaty topsoil and started burning even stronger when provided with natural fuel. The only serious casualty was someone else's tent.

Peter O'Phile: Emesis Nemesis

2005-04-19T10:39:00.000Z

Puking. Vomiting. Chucking. Spewing. Hurling. Doing the Big Spit. So many euphemisms for such a simple, yet rewarding hobby. Any drinker worth his salt has done it. Any drinker not worth his salt has probably done it more. Yet there is a strange social stigma attached, as though it were something not practical, amusing and the sign of a hard drinking job well done.

I myself lose my lunch on average once a week. In many ways, it's a highlight of the week. I've learned to see the bright side, flush, then stumble away giggling. "How though?" I hear you not screaming. How the fuck am I supposed to laugh this off? I'm in pain, choking on my own stomach lining, tears streaming from my suddenly bloodshot eyes and there's a little dribble of piss running down my leg from an unrelated incident.

Well don't be such a fucking pussy for starters. Just like burping then shitting your pants after eating, puking is the sign of a good drinking session. Suck it up and enjoy the knowledge that you've put the effort in, got wasted and are now yacking up the fruits of your labour.

Puking In Comfort and Style
First, make yourself comfortable. A towel on the edge of the toilet seat makes an ideal pillow. A pillow works even better. Ideally, take your duvet in there and have a nap afterwards. After all, everyone knows that a real man only sleeps in the toilet. "Kitchen for fucking, toilet for kipping", as the saying goes.

Second, remember to clean your teeth afterwards. Bleach is ideal but if you're reading this instead of drinking you're clearly a pitiful little fucker - use toothpaste or some shit like that instead. Trust me on this - that shit that just came out of you is acid and unless you want thin, girly, faggot teeth, don't let them disolve.

Puking Au Natural
Obviously, these tips don't work if you're out on the tiles, putting away a few brewskis with the girls. Subtlety is the watchword in this situation. If possible, try to puke behind a plant pot, table or fat girl. I'd explain further but the subtle approach is for fucking limp dick cockholes. If you're going to puke in public (and you should), the only way is to draw as much attention to your legendary status as possible - announce in a clear voice "I am going to be sick", stand on the bar and chuck onto the drip-trays. Do it mid kareoke song. Use your imagination.
Lastly, and most importantly of all, enjoy your chunder sessson.

Hall Of Fame
Latest "Day After Drinking" Upchuck:
Peter O'Phile, 4.23pm

Best Vomit (Individual):
Peter O'Phile, Barfing up whole chips after getting food poisoning and going out anyway.

Best Vomit (Individual / Freestyle):
SB, drinking a shot of rancid vodka and scarfing up an exact ashtray full without drawing attention in a crowded bar.

Best Vomit (Series):
Peter O'Phile, Chasing after flatmates giggling whilst stopping to disgorge every few steps. Total ralph count of 5 separate chunk blowings.

Feel free to send me your own reverse drinking stories on PeterOPhile@Gmail.com - they turn me the fuck on.

Unnecessary Lesson 4: For Fuck's Sake, Stop Being A Retard

2005-04-11T16:27:00.000Z

Warning: If you ever find yourself talking to a woman you've just met and she goes hand in hand to the toilets with her male "friend", leave immediately.

If he returns with a smile on his lips and she returns with...well, you get the idea, leave immediately.

Do not, under any circumstances, consider it acceptable to continue drinking with her, no matter how impressively large her breasts are. Do not, under any circumstances decide to start taking personal liberties with your camera phone instead.

I repeat for clarity - leave immediately.

If you ignore these warnings and get to throwing out time do not, under any circumstances, decide it appropriate to accept her hugs and kisses goodbye. The realisation of what you have done, when seen in the cold light of the next day, will disturb even the most fucked up of minds for a good few hours.

Myself and SB have been showering (separately, you dirty fucks) for over an hour now. Still not clean...

However, when she leaves and her absolute prick of a friend doesn't, do as SB did, walk up to the bar and suggest that they throw him out. Do not provide any reason for this and walk away. Sit back and watch the fun. Still not clean...

God, Peter, GB take a shot at SB.

2005-03-03T10:43:00.000Z

A popular pub pastime is recounting the tale of how myself and GB cost SB a ball. The testicle malfunction story is dull and short as it was caused by an infection gained when undergoing an emergency appendectomy, which myself and GB are often awarded credit for.

Obviously, there is no reasonable way a person can actually cause appendicitis in another but the blame still lands on our uncaring shoulders fairly regularly. This is the tale of the night SB actually bust a gut.

It all started fairly innocently with GB finding some green pesto abandoned in a house we had recently moved into. The potential for comedy was immediately spotted. GB would smear the pesto around the toilet bowl, splash some in the water and maybe even smear a few lumps over the seat. He would then return to us and announce how fucked up his stomach was, at which point we would wait for SB to visit the toilet and find the carnage.

GB dutifully overplayed his part and we settled down to wait for SB to fall into his trap. Around an hour later SB departed upstairs. A few seconds later, much laughter was heard. Myself and GB went upstairs to "investigate". SB was literally crying with laughter and as yet unaware that the material smeared all over the toilet was not shit. I further inflamed the situation by falling onto the toilet seat and getting "shit" on my hands and trousers before assaulting GB in a mock rage and getting shit all over him.

At this point, SB was holding his stomach and giggling to himself, then whining that he'd laughed so much he'd pulled a muscle. For the rest of the evening, myself and GB amused ourselves by making him laugh and then watching him grasp his belly and writhe in pain. "It hurts, it hurts" was the constant cry.

At around 6am the next day, SB was taken to hospital. By around 2pm his appendix had been removed. By around 6pm, myself and GB were at his bedside with a get well card fashioned from an old envelope - cheap in price but expensive in sentiment. Unfortunately for SB, he was still unconscious at this point so we gave his card to a nurse. We then disappeared quickly and got lost in a paediatrics ward.

When SB returned from hospital we found that he had been treated rather strangely by one of the nurses. The poor nurse who had thought it a nice idea to open his card for him but then declined to put it up on display after inspecting it. Sadly the card was lost but I've created a replica. Feel free to print out and adjust as required for your own mortally ill friends.

Three days later, SB returned to hospital and became a one-ball-wonder almost immediately. The bitch-tits and testosterone injections in his ass may have made him the "man" he is today, but as per Batman with The Joker, myself and GB may well have pushed him into the vat of acid which started the madness.

Peter Makes Valentine's Day Special For One Lucky Girl

2005-02-21T10:13:00.000Z

Valentine's day this year did not go according to plan. I'll spell out the plan first, let people realise that it was a poor one to start with and then get to the actual events.

GB currently lives with a male flatmate who has a virtually live-in girlfriend. Given GB's propensity for occasional friendly acts, GB suggests that he, SB and I go drinking Monday night and he uses my spare room, leaving GB's flatmate "peace and quiet".

This was a bad plan for several reasons:

1. PO'P, GB and SB are bad influences on each other and those around them.
2. PO'P, GB and SB have all suffered illnesses due to alcohol abuse and would all answer at least 50% of the "12 questions" in the affirmative.
3. PO'P and GB have to work on Tuesday. SB does not.
4. PO'P reacts badly to excessive public affection (anything above and including holding hands).
5. There will be many people enjoying a "romantic" night out, who will be offended by any abuse thrown at them.

Given this ominous background, things progressed fairly well until around 11pm when the pubs began to close and GB started to whine about calling it a night, going home and pulling on his slippers.

Fortunately, another course of action occurred to myself and SB and we retired to a late bar. I quickly realised that I could take the next day off without reprisal and continued drinking heavily. GB resolved to bitch that he wanted to go home whilst also drinking heavily. SB opted to continue drinking heavily so as not to feel left out.

Around 1am I decided that SB should not be spared the same Valentine's Day torment that myself and GB had put ourselves through at the weekend. Instead, I reasoned, he should be immediately surrounded by drunk women and given his best shot at dragging himself down into a miserable relationship such as myself and GB were already in (with women not each other, fucktards).

SB was also wearing some whiter than white, brand new trainers. I had noticed these overtly fashionable items but not commented as yet. Here was a golden opportunity to take the piss out of SB's taste in stupid shoes at the same time as getting him laid. A plan formed in my mind and I went straight to work.

My tactic of approaching women for fashion advice on SB's choice of footwear and then berating him was inspired. SB was soon surrounded by women defending him against the evil PO'P. Unfortunately one of the less intelligent females took offence to my actions:

DB: What're you trying to say?
PO'P: Huh?
DB: They're LaCoste trainers. Of course they're good.
PO'P: Why does being LaCoste make them good? They look like shit to me.
DB: But they're LaCoste trainers.
PO'P: No, they're shitty trainers made by LaCoste.
DB: You shouldn't be so bad (I swear to God she said bad) to your mate, anyway.
PO'P: How the fuck is taking the piss out of his trainers being harsh?
DB: It's not nice to your friend being racist to him.
PO'P Note: SB is black, PO'P is not.
PO'P: Do you actually know what the word racist means?
DB: You're being racist to your friend. I know that.
PO'P: Wrong. You think you know that, whereas you really don't know a fucking thing. Fuck away from me you dumb bitch.
DB: What's wrong with LaCoste trainers?
PO'P Note: DB was accompanied by 8 large males. PO'P decides to "endear" himself to these people by looking at DB in confusion and then shouting comments at them.
PO'P: What the fuck is this crazy bitch on about? Which one of you fuckers is her minder?

I was then distracted from my mockery by a slap to the left hand side of my face. I looked to my front to see DB's already rather pig-like features twisted with rage. I laughed. DB threw a left jab at me which connected quite well but with virtually no force. I laughed again. DB threw another left jab, this one as ineffectual as the first. I took the time to consider a few things:

1) Was she now more angry that her punches had no effect than I had made her in the first place?
2) Should I hit her back and if so what effect would this have on her companions' choice of action?

Sadly (or luckily), SB and GB chose this point to stop pointing and laughing and intervene instead. We left quietly, with GB constantly asserting that I had done the right thing (always a sign of a cop-out) and myself and SB debating the issue more logically

PO'P: I should have hit the bitch. That would have been fucking hilarious.
SB: Dude. You fucking wimped out. You fucking pussy.
PO'P: Shit. I really should have hit her dude.
GB: No, you did the right thing, we can still go back to...
SB: Shut up. PO'P, you are one fucking wimping out motherfucker. Faggot.
GB: What did you say to her, anyway?
PO'P: I dunno. Some shit about racism, I think.

Well, that's the total of women I've managed to annoy sufficiently to hit me up to three. My aim is double figures before the age of 30.

Unnecessary Lesson 3: No, DON'T Be A Retard

2005-02-07T10:45:00.000Z

I learned two valuable lessons this weekend:

Firstly, if you have been drinking heavily the day before and are likely to be sick at any point in time, do not drink a chocolate milkshake in order to settle your stomach.

When the beverage is rejected by your innards, the experience and end result is very reminiscent of vomiting out diarrhoea. It's quite unpleasant too.

Secondly, if one of your more retarded friends has been dicking around with a cigarette lighter (e.g. turning the flame up to around six inches in height), do not use this lighter for the first time whilst driving at 60 mph.

By the time I managed to throw the still flaming item out of the window, the car was well onto the wrong side of the road. By the time I got at least partial vision back, it seemed to have steered itself straight again. Fucking KP.

Fucked Up Conversations

2005-01-31T11:24:00.000Z

Myself and SB were having a quiet drink last Friday and conversation turned to a house we had shared some time ago. More accurately, discussion turned to the "war criminals" who lived next door (so named because they had a German accent and were around 70 years old).

SB: I can't believe you gave that fucker my bike.
PO'P: Dude, you never once rode it and it had a flat tire.
SB: I bet that fucking war criminal's riding round Nottingham on it now.
PO'P: Yup. That's how he'll be celebrating the Holocaust - getting one up on your kind.
SB: That fucker.
PO'P: After all, it's not far from misappropriating a bike to gassing a couple of million people, is it?
SB: And you let it happen.
PO'P: Shit. I reckon I fucked up there. Sorry Jews!
SB: First they came for the bike and Peter did not speak out, because it was not his bike...

PO'P NOTE: Just in case, SB was playing on the famous Pastor Niemoeller poem.

Sadly, we then realised that we were in a very quiet pub which had suddenly got a lot quieter, except for the sounds of two people giggling like maniacs. I ordered some Vodka Red Bulls and ignored the stares.

Slow Saturdays

2005-01-24T18:24:00.000Z

I had the most amazing Saturday anyone could possibly hope for this week:

It starts with me running out of cigarettes. Understandably pissed off, I leave the house and start walking to the local shop. I've barely taken 10 steps when this wimpy looking guy in glasses approaches.

WG: Holy fucking shit, it's Peter O'Phile.
POP: ?
WG: Dude, we need your fucking awesome skills to save humanity.
POP: First, I appreciate the compliment, but I'm a famous fucking misanthrope. I for one would welcome the apocalypse with open arms and a fruit basket.
WG: GO GO GO!
POP: Where?

Suddenly, 20 Ghurkhas appear from inside a bush and encircle me. I announce that I don't need any trouble, but am perfectly capable of providing said trouble, should they not all get the fuck out of my way so I can buy some tabs.

The Ghurkhas kick off on me. I grab the Kukri from one and kill a couple, but then fall over and am beaten senseless. Fucking Ghurkhas.

When I wake up, I am sitting at a pub table. A packet of Marlboro Reds and a lighter sit in front of me, so I light one up and look for a baby to breathe the fumes on. No luck. The wimpy guy appears.

WG: Dude, I'm sorry I had to do that, but we really need your help.
POP: Fuck you.
WG: Look, there's too much lager in the world. The boffins have grown too much of it. If you don't lower the stocks sufficiently, Hitler's corpse will reanimate and take over the world.
POP: Those bastards. They finally did it, didn't they? Where do I start?
WG: Here. And thank you on behalf of mankind.

The wimpy guy hands me a pint. It’s Carling. Fucking hell.

POP: Fuck off and get me some pork scratchings, nerd.

So, I start saving the world by drinking pint after pint of lager. The only problem is that I grow bored of Carling very quickly, and forgetting my task, switch to Vodka and Red Bull. Nine hours later, Wimpy Guy reappears.

WG: Holy fucking shit Peter. You drank two pints of lager and fifty three Vodka Red Bulls. What the fuck were you thinking?
POP: I thought that I might make Churchill reanimate by drinking Vodka Red Bulls. Did it work?
WG: No. Now Hitler's going to fucking town on Nottingham city centre. You fucked up, Peter.
POP: No fucking problem. I'll go kill Hitler as soon as I've taken a piss.

I step outside the pub and there's Hitler, lording it up. Except this time, he's 100 feet tall and is carrying a gun that fires these blue rays that turn people to stone.

POP: Hitler! Cut that shit the fuck out, you Jew hating motherfucker.
AH: Nein. Du bist einen licshittle swein munchen ziebel.
POP: That's fucking it, Adolf. I'm taking you the fuck down.

Then Hitler fires his evil cannon at me and I get encased in stone. Fortunately, I saw this thing on the Discovery Channel about simple harmonic motion, so I start making a humming noise and the stone falls to bits around me. I'm free again. Hitler gets all shit scared, because without his stone gun he's fucked and he starts to run away.

I catch up, and pull off an awesome flying kick to the back of his head. Hitler goes down like a hundred foot tall reanimated corpse. Everyone not wearing a stone overcoat starts cheering for me.

Then Kim Basinger (when she was younger, not all old like in 8 Mile) crawls out of the dead Hitler’s' top pocket.

KB: Oh my fucking God, Peter. You fucking rock harder than anyone has ever fucking rocked before. I want you to fuck me in my tight little pussy right fucking here and now.
POP: Well, that's more swearing than I like to hear from a lady, and I'm not sticking my dick anywhere that fucking half-baked superhero Bruce Wayne has put his batcock. I'll fuck you in the ass though.
KB: No I don't do that...wait, OK.

So I start ramming her from behind. At one point, I'm going so hard that she pukes up on the floor, but I don't stop. Then my girlfriend walks in and starts giving me grief for cheating on her or some shit. I stop my work for long enough to donkey punch the stupid bitch in the stomach.

GF: You can't do that. I'm pregnant, you wanker!
POP: Well it's not fucking mine. You know I don't have any balls (this is a lie).
GF: Yes you do. You have massive balls. The baby's yours, Peter.
POP: Fuck...I want an abortion.
GF: I can't. I'll go to hell.
POP: I'm not fucking discussing this, bitch. I'm fucking telling you.

I punch the girlfriend in the guts. Oops, that was unintentional - I punch her so hard that my hand rips through her flesh and goes into her womb. I pull out the foetus I find between my fingers and crunch it's bloody head in my mouth.

GF: You are such an asshole.
POP: Fuck you, bitch. We're through.

I return to my task of nailing Kim Basinger in her brown hole. The girlfriend goes away or dies, whatever.

THE END

I'll level with you, things are a little slow at the moment and not all of the above really happened. This Saturday, I actually waited in the house for NTL all morning, then watched Freddy Got Fingered for the 452nd time. It's a great film, apart from where he's fucking the cripple. That bit pisses me off because he gets to fuck a cripple and I probably never will. Way to rub our shitty lives in our faces, Freddy.

I did run out of cigarettes, so the story wasn't 100% fabricated. As to the rest, you decide.

Offence-a-Sketch

2005-01-08T20:18:00.000Z

It's unlike me to find anything worthwhile to do on the internet, but I came across something recently that has caused a sensation amongst my scat-ridden circle of friends: Offence-a-Sketch.

The aim is, surprisingly, to create the most offensive etch-a-sketch drawing possible, using the meagre two dimensional, constant line control provided. Or Photoshop of course, but that's cheating.

So, go to http://www.arniie.com/sections/user/etch.php and create your own.

If you manage to create a drawing more offensive than those displayed below (I've set the bar pretty low, all things considered), then send it to PeterOPhile@Gmail.com. I'll post it here and credit you if it amuses me.

It's far from easy but these images are in chronological order and as you can see, I soon got the hang of things. Will you?

Unnecessary Lesson 2: Don't Be A Retard

2004-12-13T09:42:00.000Z

I had to take my laptop to bits recently as my retard flatmate had broken the power connector and it wouldn't charge up.

Needless to say, it didn't go well, especially as I was in a rush to get out to the pub after attempting my repairs. Unless you like a computer flashing up a white screen followed by a black one constantly, steer clear of mine.

So until January when I will be back at work and therefore online, or I find a magical way to fix a fucked up laptop BIOS using techniques only taught by a dead Tibetan monk in Derby, this is likely to be Peter down. I'm sure the internet world will be a much happier place.

PO'P NOTE: I appreciate the stupidity of blaming Samsung for my own shitty lack of judgement. However, the laptop sucked even before my recent "work" on it and I am therefore fully justified in this comment.

PO'P EDIT: In the spirit of all that New Year bullshit, this story was the highlight of my 2004. Yes, this was a really shitty, dull year by all accounts. On the other hand, I was sick in my eye, which makes it all worthwhile.

A Moment Of Reflection (Part 1)

2004-12-07T11:17:00.000Z

I removed my tongue from the mouth of the middle aged, Portugeuse escort stood in front of me. A few questions instantly came to mind. Had my drinking buddies really bought me Essy for the night, or was I about to wander into dangerous, paying for sex type territory? Again?

If they had been joking, as I suspected, what the fuck was this woman doing assaulting someone literally half her age with her tongue, whilst standing outside the male toilets in some shitty bar in Crawley?

Most importantly, I thought, how did I end up in this strange situation, with a further two escorts drinking with my workmates, as they "haggled" for business, here, on the night of my 21st birthday?

The most obvious place to start would be in The Aldwych, a small pub around two minutes walk from my place of employment at the time. A few weeks earlier, a new lady providing lunchtime sandwiches had been employed, Essy.

An instant stir was caused, as can only be the case when a moderately attractive woman appears in your local, which has previously been run by aged swamp donkeys. This effect is multiplied by a factor of approximately a million when alcohol is served at the location in question. It is doubled again if the person in question brings you food. Suffice to say, excitement levels were high that day.

Banter began instantly, and within a couple of weeks, myself and a few of the more common drinking partners got to know Essy quite well. Nowhere near as well as we thought, of course.

The revelation that would change everything came one evening. Sadly, I have no idea how this conversation came about. For maximum effect imagine a thick Portuguese accent - Nadia from BB5 would be a good example if she wasn't a man, so imagine a feminine Nadia from BB5.

E: "Jess, I am a laydee escort."
PO'P: < Stunned >
E: "Ohhh. Eeets okay, I don't sleep with 'dem."
PO'P: < Still struggling for composure >
E: "I don't even meet with 'dem, I am de manager of de agency."
PO'P: "Cool. So how much do you make doing that then?"

A fairly normal conversation ensued about the fiscal benefits of prostitution (I make no bones about it, in my opinion this woman was lying and clearly fucked people for money. Good money too. You'd be amazed. Unless you've already been there of course, you dirty little man. Get the fuck off my internet site).

Suffice to say, this news made even greater waves on the office gossip sea and the subject was discussed further next time we bumped into Essy. During this conversation I accidentally agreed to develop a website for the agency (for convenience, let's call them "FuckALot Escorts").

I say accidentally, and even mean it truthfully, because to this day I don't understand what came over me. Essy mentioned that WhoreBag Escorts needed a website doing. After a few milliseconds of silence, I said, "I'll do it!". Essy proceeded to thank me effusively (not that effusively, you dirty, dirty boy!) and then left me with a little time to consider my options.

At this point, I did not have a computer at home. I would have to create the proposed website whilst at work in my open plan office, which would be risky to say the least. However, I sensibly decided not to retract my offer, and instead continue walking my well trodden path of stupidity. Work on a website for SlutJockey Escorts started immediately.

You are about to be shot in the head seven times, having been mistaken for a terrorist due to your slightly brown skin. What you rather be shot with?
	Hollow Point Ammunition
	HyperDeathLaser MkII
	Full Metal Jacket Ammunition
	Titanium Enriched Cheese
	Really Sharp Sticks
	No Strong Preference

You are a bit lardy, having overdone it on the food front. What or whom do you blame for this?
	Titanium Enriched Cheese
	My (Your, Not My (Mine)) Big Fucking Mouth
	Food Being Just Simply Fucking Awesome
	Societal Pressure Against Obesity Driving Me To Food
	Guilt Over Those Babies In My Sewing Drawer Driving Me To Food
	EAWFR TW$% JUYGKIGU
	That last option was a cheap shot. I apologise.
	Leading question, your honour. I decline to answer.

Observed State
	Terrorist
	Paedophile

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