The Perils of Moving Home for the Zillionth Time.

After what seems like a million moves, I like to keep things MINIMAL.

That means clean lines, smooth edges. No mess. Neat. 

I like to be able to hoist what items I have into a box with a nice big shiny red bow and cart them off swiftly whenever things go down in Chinatown.

I like that all my things can be squashed down into a few bags for life and my garden hose can also multitask as a Christmas garland for my Xmas tree in transportation.

I like how sensible I am in sellotaping the respective castors to the underside of the beds, drawers and everything else that was missing a screw, a wheelie bit and a few other non-descript bolts. 

I like how I remembered that drawing pins, light bulbs and plugs all take precedence over toilet rolls, charger supply and internet access. 

And I give a special high five to clean bedding, towels and dishcloths. . .  

. . . . . . When I can fucking find em!!

The Mary Rose of Social Renting

In times to come, I will be classed as one of the lucky ones.

I was fortunate enough to pick and choose my ideal property without it costing me a bean – apart from my weekly rent and other taxes.  . . .  Oh, and 13 years waiting.

 

I was able to secure a home without having to sell a kidney, debt myself up to the eyeballs and complain til I was blue in the face about the shit state of the ‘private property’ market.

And for that I am extremely grateful to Social Housing. 

So IDS  . . .  Come and try throwing me out if ya dare, you mutha fucka. 

The world’s a windscreen...

I like driving.  It opens my eyes in many ways. 

I see dirty little paedophile men in scummy little work vans ogle schoolgirls in uniforms. 

I see dirty cunts picking their noses and eating the fucker. 

I see old codgers who don’t know what fucking day it is let alone what the stopping distance for 50 metres is in wet weather. 

I see Slovakians regularly trying to break the Guinness Book of World Records for how many fat people you can get in a twoc'd Lexus with a smashed back axle, three wheels and no handbrake.

I see people who have problems distinguishing a falling sheep sign from a big fuck off stop one. 

I see people who think those flashing orange lights are something you only use on the motorway when you’re out of petrol and who think that the rear view mirror is merely an implement to put on ones lipstick or ensure ones eyebrows are on fleek. 

And I also see that wing mirrors are no longer instruments of safety, they are merely there just to give a mighty high five to the cunt in the passing white range rover with the personalised twat plate.

What Intelligent life form?

It wasn’t until I started really listening that I started to understand how fucked up the human race actually is.

If you were an extra-terrestrial being with aptitudes and capabilities beyond our teeny tiny own little brain capacity, you wouldn’t be abducting and farming our brains, you’d be pissing yourselves out in the stratosphere at how much the human race are fucking dipshits. 

Credit to the people responsible for initially creating that big old fairytale that really should have won more Oscars than any Disney, Pixar & Sony film put together. . . 

The story of Religion.  – (Which btw would’ve pipped Cinderella at the post if Prince Charming wasn’t as elusive as Jesus.)

These extra-terrestrials must be rolling around in their spaceship, looking out at the universe, thinking ‘WTF??? These creatures are absolute imbeciles.’

Their conversation must consist of ‘These unintelligent dicksplats really do exist only to talk shit, delude shit, distort shit, destroy shit, disrespect shit, deprive shit, decay shit, dilapidate shit, destruct shit, devour shit & do shit.’

And you really can’t fault em for concluding that. 

After all, they’ve got it spot on. 

We're all fucking idiots.