I haven't blogged in ages, you see. So that explains why I am spewing my guts out in this manner till I am posting some four, five blogs in one day. Clearly, I am having a hoot. And since no one fucking reads my blog anyway, this is somewhat similar to writing in my diary, which is something I haven't been doing since September 2010. The remaining pages of my diary have since been used for Scottish shortbread recipes. All 20 pages of it for one fucking type of biscuit. So yes. I have my PC back and I don't have to fiddle on Blackberry and its shitty small screen and I am having fun.

ANYWAY. This is so old news this but I was surfing the interwebs and I was reminded of London riots that took place recently. I haven't seen Central London so I don't quite know the full extent of the damage yet but still, my life shall go on and on. I am still a bit miffed that Harrods did not get bashed open though. I think any store that holds a dining table that costs 20 grand should be looted. Come on Broken Britain, WHAT ARE YOU DOING. If you want to moan about the government never giving enough money then go and nick some dining table worth 20 grand. That will give your chavvy moms something to smile about when she wakes up in the morning coked off her face, gurning so much till most of her molars are gone. Oh NHS, what will us council estate residents do without you, eh?

So, about the looters. Most of them are kids anyway. Or maybe the occasional professional working adults, like that bloke who was a teaching assistant. He was goaded by them little twats he teaches in the day, I tell you. I was watching the Meridien News with Jaz and his oh-so-hostile mother and it showed the coppers bashing the shit out of the looters on the streets at night. That was one the only few times I feel some togetherness with his Mom. When we yelled at the screen 'BEAT THE LITTLE TWATS UP!'. Yes. We are all for beating the shit out of insolent cocks, we are. Ever so keen on children discipline.

And then... There was this full grown man that looted TESCOs.

At least it was Basmati Rice. Fucker knows his quality goods.

TESCO. Every little helps. Now someone make some Vindaloo to go with that lush rice.

I have had a pee. And a fag. And a fresh cup of Tetleys. All is right in my world again. No plants were endangered.

Now. To roll another fag. Fuck it aye. We're all going to die and our souls will depart from ourPenal Gland and fuck knows where we'll end up in. Maybe in some pod surrounded by mucous. Just properly sat down, or passed out in bed, with Jaz and he insisted I watched The Matrix. And I did. And it had further filled my head with so much crap. It is bad enough that I think we are descendants of Aliens ala The Mission to Mars anyway. Now I have to contend with the fact that we might all be human and really we are all in mucous-filled pods. I love how he tries to educate me through films. We've watched fucking Snatch so many times it's ridiculous. And Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. I must know the awesomeness of English films and fuck all the Yank rubbish, he says.

But yes. As I was saying... Yeah, fuck it. We're all going to die. So might as well roll a fag and die doing something that seemed worthwhile to me. Any minute now Josh is going to burst through the bedroom door and ask me if he can pinch a few Rizlas. As though he can hear the crisp papers being pulled out slowly out of the little Rizla box-thing. Smoke, don't smoke. Drink, don't drink. All these patronizing twats telling me what to do or not do. And that look of horror as I light up. Fuck it, alright. My child died in the womb for no fucking reason anyway. So sod yous. I will light up. I mean, look at the state of the fucking world. At the rate that it's all going to bits, who wants to be around till 90 anyway. I don't want to be 90 and be humiliated when someone I don't remember being related to is wiping my arse. Then again, I might not even realize my arse was being wiped. Meh. Already I think that we are living longer than we should. Don't people used to pop off at 60 or something? I know of a few over 60s who should die at this stage. Like that old cock in that bus going up to Bushey train station telling me to get the fuck up so that we can sit when I was heavily pregnant. I'd gladly give up my seat to old people. Just not ones should calls me a 'Rude Child'. I'll give you rude, you old cock.

Then again, my Nan's pretty ancient. And she's cool. Oh, well...

Oooh fuck I'd love a She-Wee. I am fucking bursting to pee and Olly's in there having a bath. Or doing a shit. I don't know. I was practically crying outside the bathroom whilst holding my secrets and he was saying 'ONE MINUTE!'. I'm a girl. I can't do one minute. One minute will lead to piss dribbling down my inner thighs. Oh my gorgeous new leggings that I went to bed with this morning because I was so fucking hammered it's not even funny. I'll just sit here with my legs crossed and distract myself. Fucking hell I need to cry.

Olly's out of the loo and then Josh needed to brush his fucking teeth. Just fucking kill me now. Jaz has gone out to the High Street and there is no one to punch the living daylights out of them. No one to fend for me while I sit on the bathroom floor crying and telling him to hurry the fuck up.

And now I've run back down to our room and seriously wondering if I should just piss in a cup. I've done it loads of time before. Pissing into a container of sorts. Or maybe just fucking pee out in the garden and blame it on the dogs.

Ow. I'm going to die of toxic shock.

Ooh. Bathroom's free.

How can I express just how that phrase 'Now that's not a nice thing to say, is it?' gets on my tits? It drives me absolutely livid to the point where my chucking my fist straight into the face of the person saying it would be simply divine. Obviously, it was not a nice thing to say. I would think that I'd know it wasn't a nice thing to say before it escapes my mouth. How dare you make me doubt myself. Patronising cow.

If I were to come in flying through the door and say 'Fucking cow next door. Blooming miserable turd.' obviously I did not for one second think I was trying to be nice about it. Exactly what is wrong with some people these days.

If I were to slag some people off, surely I'd have realized the entire act of slagging one off is not a pleasant pastime. If I were to take the piss, it was simply me taking the piss. Being nice was not the basis of such an act. Let us all be nice and just take the piss out of that poor sod in a nice manner. Wankers.

I have a mental gurney sack and it is a massive one. In it I shall put Shakespeare lovers. Them snotty twats who will randomly quote Shakespeare and expect me to know which fucking play it came out of. Them arsey individuals who will tell you, whether you like it or not, how many of Shakespeare's works they are familiar with. Them I shall put first and foremostly in my Sack of Arseholes.

Secondly, Wine-tasters. They who sniff and swirl and claim they can smell hints of Cardamom, vanilla and maybe Patchouli oil. Yes, them. They will go in there and accompany the Lovers of Shakespeare.

Thirdly, sculptors of Abstract Art. Or maybe sculptors and painters. Excuse me for not having an eye for the finer things in life. In all honesty, mate, I don't know what the fuck it is up there on the centre stage. It is shit. A pile of mud. Shit. A lump of scaffoldings. Shit. Don't tell me that it symbolises life in Metropolitan London. Yes, London is shit. People piss up against every imaginable wall. Very shit.

Pretentious twats. As pretentious as clueless twats who don Vivienne Westwood because she symbolises the New Age Era Revolution and all her pieces are breath-taking. Bollocks. She's just amazing. End of. No need for you to pretend you are as amazing as she is simply wearing her creations.

Fourthly, the Gothic shits out here right now who read Twishite and watch every blooming episode of True Blood. Oh how I wish to bash the shit out them prats. Bash them up till they bleed from every orifice and eventually die after being attacked by badgers.

Fifthly, middle-class Jewish young adults who go on as if they are of Jamaican descend. Wagwan, Blahd. Ah fuck off. You rich, over-privileged pricks, you lot. Fuck you know about the gangsta life. Really. Bloody driving Mini Coopers funded by Mummy Dearest after her severance pay-off.

With that, I'll end this with...

Did you see that fake abs thing on Big Bruv that fat bloke had on?

Scared the Bejesus out of me.

I have one follower here. One sodding follower.

Oh, this will not do.

This one-follower business so does not suit my 'Love myself a bit too much' image.

Really... One miserable follower.

Le sigh.

Eh...

You know... It feels weird when you've just read a mate's blog and then realized that... It is you she's been slagging off?

It feels somewhat like... Walking in on your partner when he's getting a handjob off an ex. Or something. It's just... Eh?

An moment of Eh-ness followed by that urge to just crawl into a dark corner and really be Un-Eh about it.

So really... Eh.