When accidents happen – don’t watch the news

When accidents happen – don’t watch the news

Or should you?

A life of comparative luxurious poverty. That I have. A few small debts – mostly from gallivanting around and it was gallivanting around that caused the conclusion.

Stupidity. Along with a chain reaction of bad luck. But negligible when compared to listening to the news. But before I go into that – let me spew my moans and groans in not a chronicle order as the news jumps about also.

Recall – Blu Ray DVD player with amp and surround sound speakers - is fucked. All solutions on the internet suggest throwing it out the window. That’s Euro 300 out the window.

Next. I blew up the brand new fan/heater for my biltong box in a drunken rage which blew the mains. Somehow, in all this very confused situation, totally blind, I twisted my foot. Badly.

‘Sounds of Silence’? That’s for sure. Fuck all was working.

Returning the power on. Fine. Except the oven no longer works. That is because it is a ‘smart oven’. Lots of flashing lights and shit. Peeps non stop. I can read German, so found the instructions, but after many attempts to sort the clown out – concluded it should join the DVD shite out the window.

The only reason I did not was because I did not have the strength. Meanwhile, flashing pictures of barefoot peasants swarming over the Burma border, starving etc, is flashing on the tv. I am also barefoot, (odd – is it not one foot but two feet? So I am bare feet?), left foot swollen and me starving because I cannot heat up my pizza.

Then – all this juicy work to do. Hanging around is not good. At the firm, private, at home, some for D. News flash – all the peasants, half a million of them, all looking for a job. Yeah, come to Germany. What you skilled at? Fucking and popping out kids non-stop.

Next – depression. Hanging around all day – more like hopping around = depression. Depressed – watch Teresa May getting a P45, coughing her guts up. All I could think of was I would love to do an up skirt photo. Nice long legs and cute jiggle titties.

The biltong is almost all gone. But – I have concluded – Rhodies ALWAYS make plans. Suicide is painless. Shooting people from the 32^nd floor is a real cheer up?

Of course – nothing like some fish fingers and chips. I landed up shitting out so much plastic, I placed a recyclable bag in the bog. Problem though. I had to separate the bum swipe paper from the plastic bags I was crapping out.

Anyway – foot loose – but not fancy free. Do I have a problem with my life? Hardly. Listen to FM radio – every two minutes they punch the loop tape ‘Have a happy day’, as they sack one of their top DJs. It’s a hard knock life. I wonder if that volcano will explode and Donald bomb North Korea.

Still – hey, life as we know it, goes on. It is not at all complicated. You are born – then you die. In between you pay taxes. But not if you a migrant. Tax payers pay for them to sleep, not work and reproduce as rapid as rampant rabbits. I am a migrant. I have two children. But I am white and condemned. I must starve because my oven is too smart for me.

In conclusion -

I thank my fans for supporting me during this stressful time. The cure – Don’t watch the fucking news!

PS – just won the lottery. Hah. Built a luxury house in the Virgen Islands.  Oh fuck – a hurricane is approaching.

The Good Old Colonial Times

An exchange of letters at the beginning of colonial times in Africa.

No joke this. On Sky news at the weekend.

They were rabbiting on about archivers and historians sniffing through tons and I mean tons, of papers in the vaults of the British Library (what a place that is!), and they came across an exchange of letters between two blokes.

This is 1800 and voetsack, yia sailing ship or whatever – between the UK and some backwater in Africa.

So the bloke in Africa writes – Dear James, sorry to tell you that your brother/cousin (or whatever), George, has died. I will be sending his body to the UK for burial. Regards, Harry.

Next letter is a reply. – Dear Harry, many thanks but there seems to be a mistake. Upon opening the temporary coffin, we discovered a large crocodile. Best regards, James.

Some time later – Dear James, no mistake, George is in crocodile. Kindest regards, Harry.

And I kid you not. The whole Sky team were pissing with laughter.

Monkey man and old Itchy

Monkey man and old Itchy

In my career in the construction industry I had the displeasure of employing some of the biggest idiots who had been created by parents who should have been spayed at birth.

One was named Martin – an Irishman. I suffered the fool for two months before sacking the twat. In that time it would take me two months to actually write down his daily disasters. Of average height and blue eyes that constantly blinked in time with his absorbance of instructions- to no avail, he was white as white with dark hair. Not on his back but just about everywhere else.

He claimed to be a fully qualified plasterer. His brain was plastered. The idiot still now and then tries to friend me on FB!

Moving on quickly – before I threw the idiot out, we  (me and the other lads), pulled a stunt on him.

On the way home from work we would pass a knocking car park. All legal. Tarts in vans flashing flesh for cash.

We all chipped in and at the height of summer with Martin only in shorts and covered in glass wool fibres, was duly kicked out the firm waggon, given the 100 and told to get laid.

After wandering among the various vans of whores, he picks one. Gets in and gives us a wave as she drives off into the sunset. Not really – drove 100 meters away and soon enough, to our wicked delight, the passion wagon is bouncing away for an amazing 3 minutes.

He told us – she was going mad – not with passion but itching all over…hah hah

Finally – through the grape vine, I heard he wandered around Munich from one daft job to another and actually booked a two week holiday to Kenya. Which included one week at a beach resort in Mombasa and one week safari.

I have been there and all over the place are HUGE signs saying ‘Don’t feed or tease the monkeys’.

So what does our plasterer do? He has been in the hotel maybe 15 minutes.

Waves a bun at a monkey. It dutifully rocks up. He grabs it by the tail and swings it around!

Well, those of you not from Africa – will not understand that this is not a good idea. (That is a lot of nots.)

Of course – the tribe reacted and next thing you know – he covered not in glass fibres – but very angry monkeys. One sinks some rather long fangs into his right calf.

Cutting to the chase – our hero is rushed to hospital and spends the whole two weeks on crutches with puss and goo dripping out his leg. Flies back to Ireland and was lucky not to have his leg removed due to blood poisoning.

Thick as a brick – he recovered and a few months ago wrote that he went back and climbed Kilimanjaro. Big deal. An eight year old girl did that last week.

But – hey – ask Lady D about the time she did pole dancing in front of that mountain.