I ran a marathon in my snickers (ooer)

Hallo peeps!

No, I didn't run a marathon in my pants.

Today I'll be pondering rebranding.

I won't really, I don't have any kind of brand, but I was wondering something. Is it this blog's totally shitness which means I have so few readers, or is it the fact that it's not called sexcapades or something similar?

Do let me know!

I have a dream...

Well, had, really.

I was a bigger, meaner, tougher Tony Blair, and I was in charge of a post apocalyptical UK, with the Labour party as my Mad Max style gang and the Tories as rivals.

I had a meeting with John Major, for some reason, and it ended in an incredible barney. This rumble included me smashing Michael Portillo and Iain Duncan Smith with a chair and a table, respectively. Gordon brown also threw someone through a wall, which was totally amazing.

If you've ever watched Prime Minister's Question on tv (lolf, I'm a big saddo) then you'll realise that this isn't actually very far from the truth. Although they don't actually assault each other, they wave their programmes around, shout through them and roll them up and throw them at each other (I made that last one up, and probably the second one as well).

It's totally brilliant.

On a forum I frequent (filled with the brightest stars in the galaxy, to quote one of them) we're having a bit of a debate about how to get people in this country more involved with politics. I think that in this case, as with everything, public displays of violence are the push we all need!




I want to see MPs doing this, and I want to see it every single day.

Precious little time

Hello dear reader(s)!

My dad told me something a while back, and it's really starting to sink in now.

He said to me "Starke, there are millions of dead rich people out there, and they'd give every penny of it just to be alive for one more minute, time isn't money, money doesn't even come close"

My Grampa told him that, funnily enough.

The reason it's sinking in is because I realise I'm stuck in a shitty, dead-end temp job, my hands hurt like hell as my RSI threatens to start taking over my whole life, as opposed to just being the painful nuisance it is just now.

I'm gathering my safety money for a month or two then quitting this scum-hole, I mean, why should I while away my life making some other guy rich and happy and comfortable, while my hands throb and my social life dwindles?

My dad's now a taxi driver, and that's what I plan on doing. It may not be the most glamorous work, but it gives me the freedom to work when I please, I don't have to ruin my tendons and nerves by typing constantly, the money's about 4 times better than I get as an office drone, and I get out and about, meeting people and enjoying summer when it comes around.

I'd urge you all to make the most of your time in this mortal coil, not necessarily doing good things like charity work or whatever. Be selfish! Do something which gives you time to do other things, stuff that you actually WANT to be doing.

You can always earn more money, you can never reclaim time.

Whew

Christ, thank fuck for that, thank the fucking cunting Lord, in all his shitty arse pissing glory!

I managed to get the text back under control, but I bet none of you readers (lol, as if I have those!) really even cared.

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit!!!

HELP ME


I HAVE CURRENTLY LOST CONTROL OF MY TEXT AND AM CRASHING INTO THE PAGE!!!

Everyone loves a good rammy

A fight broke out on my train today, MY train!

I have no idea what it started over, but it ended with me pulling one guy away while the conductor threw the other one off. Usually I don't get involved with things like this, but it was just us 4 in the carriage at the time, and I couldn't let the "hector" try to sort it out by himself.

I was secretly wishing for a reward; not having to pay for a ticket maybe, baby?

He walked off to report the incident to the driver, about 10 mins later the train is full and he is walking back down in my direction, inspecting tickets and grinning at me.

He approaches, "Thanks for the help earlier by the way".
"Yeah no problem ma--"
"Got your ticket there?"

I was very nearly Ready 2 Rumble, but I left my afro at home.

What a beezer rash.

Well! This is a little belated, but my recent night out at the Duntiglennan was fucking brilliant.

The day started by watching a charity football match at the Antonine Sports Centre, then my friend and I headed to the Dunti for some top grub and some early drinking at about 2pm or so, I think.

Pretty soon the Dunti was filling up, we headed home for some R R before heading back out an hour or so later.

The drinks starting flowing copiously. Among my tasks completed were :-

Combining one of each aftershock, drinking the poison and washing it down with a Corona.

Make-up being applied to my ugly face, turning me into a pretty girl

Obtaining two Triforces from top notch fellas.

It was the first really good night I've ever had in just a pub, hopefully not the last

Her name was Alison

Her name was Alison, and she was a Safeway girl who went travelling across the world, leaving me to pick up the pieces of a lost best friend who had decided she didn't want a friendship anymore, for apparently no reason whatsoever.

I worked with her for a year, and we grew close, but I was taken and she was out of my league anyway (was she, though?). Her brother, the big baldy bastard that he is, hated me with some kind of testoserone fuelled, already been done for assault in the past, zeal.

We were joined at the hip, and everyone thought there was something more, there really should have been.

She fell out with me because I couldn't go to her birthday party, I seen her once after that, before she left for Australia. I'm aware this is a rambling smudge of a blog, but it's getting hazy and I don't want to lose it, it has to be written down in at least one place.

She didn't even say goodbye.

Here's to lost chances and broken friendships!