Bins

And sure enough. I'm back! So the last year was pretty quiet because I had a lot going on in my life (my pet ocelot died, my house fell into a ravine and my children turned out to be dwarfs masquerading as infants). Anyway I'm over that now and I'm back to illuminate your pathetic lives with more whining, bitching and moaning. Lucky you.

Today I'm talking about the fascinating topic of bins. Every now and then I turn on the TV or radio there are two halfwits having a debate about bin collection. Now, I am usually the first person to complain about pointless nonsense, but even I draw the line at this. In case you are not aware, it's a debate about whether bins should be collected every week rather than every other week. MASSIVE YAWN.

First of all, who gives a flying bag full of piss? 'Oh my bins smell' - Well you know what chump, bins are supposed to smell, they're bins for Christ's sake! Full of sick, decaying unwanted pets and alike. They're not supposed to smell like a Gregg's bakery. And it's not as if you live in your bin (unless of course you do in which case you've probably got bigger things to worry about; like dying). And if you haven't got room in your bin for all of your rubbish over two weeks then stop eating ready meals, or get rid of a child or two.

angryman likes: not talking about bins

BLOG ALERT

Because I am such a miserable bastard, I have decided to create a new blog where I eat sadnwiches a lot and generally don't complain about anything. It's called 50 Days of Sandwich and can be found here. Don't worry though, I will be back here soon enough complaining like a Daily Mail reading Tory soon enough ...

smallangryman 2: extra angry extra small

Hello ...

I know how you must feel; distraught, deceived, distrustful ... other words beginning with 'd'?

Or perhaps you feel relieved? Like a kidnapped child who's been locked in a dungeon for weeks, but who has slowly grown dependant on their captor. At first you thought I'd return after a week, then maybe a month. After a couple of months you became doubtful. Then, after 6 months, just when you were about to finally gave up all hope, BANG! I'm back. And this time I've brought some chicken nuggets and your favourite flavoured ice cream ...

There are many reasons I stopped the blog for a bit: moving house, getting mugged, apathy, boredom and a growing hatred towards anyone who writes a blog including your truly (all of which I plan to write about shortly).

But the main thing is I'm back ... and I'm still small and still angry.

angryman likes: your mum

Pope Eggs Benedict

Sorry about that last post, I got a bit carried away.

Anyway I thought I'd write about the Pope today because, you know, the poor chap is not getting enough media coverage. I don't have anything against the Pope, apart from the fact he ALLEGEDLY (I'm pretty sure that the Vatican has a strong legal team and, you know, it does have the Lord Almighty on its side) covered up mass child abuse. He can come here if he wants. He can ride around in his Popemobile. He can make out with the ground. He can play table-tennis with the Queen. Frankly, I couldn't give a toss. I don't really care about it costing the tax payer £12 million. Well, I do, but not enough to get out of my armchair and take my frustration out on my secretary. I do that anyway, for no reason whatsoever.

What does bother me is that his aide dared to call Heathrow a 3rd World Country. Who does he think he is? That (ALLEGEDLY) pompous old-fashioned cock-faced twat weasel. Heathrow is a symbol of our British Empire. It is the last bastion in our otherwise Empireless lives, it is the lighthouse that steers us away from the rocks, it is the buxom woman we come home to after a long day chopping wood in the forest.

Well actually, it's not, Heathrow is a fucking shithole. It is the objectification of Osama Bin Laden shitting in child's mouth. The media seems to have taken this issue to heart, treating Heathrow as if it is the best thing since sliced pizza, forgetting that it constantly berates the airport every other time of the year. I think the issue here is that only we, the Great British public, can call Heathrow a 3rd World Country.

angryman likes: discouraging people from using condoms

EDIT: So apparently in a clarification this aide, Cardinal Kasper, the friendly ghost Cardinal, said he was referring to the multicultural society at Heathrow and not the hellish state of Heathrow by referring to it as the 3rd World. Which is basically like landing and saying "Fuck me, there are a lot of blacks here!" In that case Cardinal Kasper, you are a massive dick.

Mummy, why has that man got no eyeballs?

I like horror films. But I am not scared by them. And by that I don't mean "Oh my you made me jump" scary but "HOLY SHIT SOMEONE TEAR MY EYEBALLS OUT" scary. 

Blood and gore are not scary. My own imagination is far more frightening than that. The scariest films I have seen are ones that flip everything you know on its head. They play with your mind more than your stomach. I think a great horror film is not one that has the ability to make the audience jump or look away in disgust, but one that has a lasting impact and makes you feel uneasy. Like The Shining or even The Usual Suspects (not a horror film per se but I found it scarier than most horror films).

The same goes with ghost trains or haunted houses at theme parks. Even as a kid I found them tacky and mundane. So, a few years ago, I came up with the ultimate ghost ride that would guarantee the expulsion of at least 2 different types of bodily fluid from its participants. Here is the general premise:

You queue for the ride as per usual. You enter the darkened damp cavernous halls with plastic skeletons hanging from the walls and the faint sound of eerie-yet-comical music playing. You sit on one of those stupid trains. Some spotty squealer tells you to not touch anything. Then, just as the locomotive is ready to leave, it breaks down. You are asked to leave so the maintenance man can come and look at the ride. You exit the ride back into the main theme park, except something is wrong. It is deserted, except for you and your fellow haunted house rejects. An employee runs up to your group and tells you there has been an accident. Everyone has been evacuated from the park except you and your group. Another man approaches you. He is not an employee. As he gets closer you notice he is pale and has blood dripping from his head. He collapses in front of the crowd. He mutters something before coughing up some more blood. They're is a loud scream and a roar and the sound of glass smashing. There is gun fire. A nearby building's windows smash and there is more screaming. The employee tells you all to follow him. You do so into the nearby gift shop. You all catch your breath. After a while you look at the toys in the gift shop. All of their eyes have been ripped out. Blood is smeared across the walls. The guy behind the counter is lying motionless. He has the words "look" and "up" written on each of his eyelids. You look at the example ride photos on the wall behind him. There are pictures of more dead people slumped against a wall. You look closer. The photos are of you and your group.

angryman likes: candy floss

I'm off to Tescos .... WHAT?!

The more I think about stuff, the more I get angry about stuff, so I've been trying not to think ... about anything. The World Cup assisted in my futile venture but now that's over I have to resort to thinking about stuff, and people, and about how much people annoy me with their idiotic ways.

Take, for instance, the leading supermarket chain in England; Tesco. I don't have much gripe with Tesco itself or the people who shop there. It's with people's pronunciation, or mispronunciation, of the name of the supermarket which get's my balls in a twist.

Many refer to it as "Tescos" or Tesco's". I'm not sure if these dimwits believe that there are many supermarkets, hence the pluralisation, or whether they think the supermarket belongs to Tesco. Who knows? And who fucking cares? They're doing it wrong. And if it's you, you're doing it wrong. IT'S TESCO! "Sainsbury's" is "Sainsbury's" because that's its fucking name. Similarly Morrisons is Morrisons ... ad nauseam.

You don't say "I'm off to Top Shops".  Actually you probably do.

angryman likes: nothing

Fuck Vuvuzelas

Seriously.

For all of those sensitive namby-pamby people who think that it is an insult to South African culture to dislike vuvuzelas, well fuck you too! 

It's not insensitive to ask for some variation in the general ambiance of a stadium atmosphere. People have been describing the general vibe of the World Cup as "carnival like". You know what, that carnival atmosphere is definitely not being portrayed through the TV, unless it's a carnival of killer fucking locusts partying with killer fucking bees.

It's not insensitive to want to hear the ebb and flow of the crowd enjoyment. You know, cheering. Remember that? When people used to cheer with elation when a goal was scored. Those were happy days. Or even boos. I miss boos. Now it's this:

Goal: BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Referee mistake: BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Goalkeeping blunder: BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Free Kick: BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Throw in: BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Complete euphoria: BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Someone dies: BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Your mum's on fire: BBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

And it's definitely not insensitive to want to watch a game of football without feeling the need to kick a pony in the face repeatedly just to make you feel again. 

Worse still, from my extensive research of various sources (wikipedia), I've discovered that these things only became popular in the 1990s in South Africa. And this plastic version wasn't even made until 2001! Yeah, those things are really entrenched in your history South Africa. Remember that scene in Zulu when Michael Caine confiscates all those vuvuzelas? That was heart-wrenching that.

I'll say it again: Fuck vuvuzelas. 

angryman likes: PEACE AND FUCKING QUIET.