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The Filth & The Fury


Once again, Finton shares a few of life’s irritants that jab away incessantly at him like small children with long sticks & a nest of rats.


Footwear that is neither shoe nor trainer


A curious hybrid that’s sprung up from nowhere & seemingly omnipresent in the River Islands of this world. There once was a simpler time when footwear adhered to a strict form – shoes were usually black or brown & instantly recognisable. Similarly, a trainer had stripes or swooshes & could be spotted a mile off. These monstrosities follow no such convention. Usually a shitty brown in colour, covered in a myriad of straps & curious ridges & typically sported by men in the first throes of a mid life crisis or suffering at the hands of a particularly bullying spouse. I imagine they team them up with Burtons cargo pants then go to buy ethically sound turnips from the local farmer’s market or Jack Johnson CD’s.  Probably accompanied by a stick insect of a wife wearing the latest welding mask style shades & pushing back the boundaries of what we’d term “mutton”. Vile footwear for vile people.




I’m a realist. I accept pop music, for a whole host of reasons, needs its boy bands. However, I also genuinely believe Westlife have now gone too far. With fat fuck Brian ( with an “I” not a “Y” daahling ) busy simultaneously flopping as a credible artiste & trying to get custody from his fat titted ASBO in waiting ex missus, I figured they may be just about bearable. But no. They appear to have stopped trying altogether & are hell bent on regurgitating “Wind beneath my Wings” for the McDonalds generation time after time. It is slowly becoming the rule that you will mainly hear a Westlife song in one of the following scenarios :

a)      As some ironically coiffeured deluded wannabe is tunelessly murdering it in next year’s Pop Idol, complete with obligatory “eyes closed, grab the air & make the song yours” gesture.

b)      As the “inspirational” background music at some Child of Courage awards when some poor toddler with a tube sticking out of her nose ambles onto stage to hug a tearful Gabby or Cilla.

“You raise me up” – I wish someone WOULD raise you up – preferably by the neck with a length of curtain cord so I could watch all four of you camp Paddy cunts dancing the Tyburn jig.


Assistants at JD Sports in Wigan


It should have been so easy. It should have followed the time honoured tradition - gone in, spotted a pair of trainers for my daughter & some barely coherent man child should have ambled half heartedly into the back, had a fag, flirted badly with his equally feral counterpart then spotted them in a pile created by someone much higher up the food chain. But no. This was obviously far too complex for someone who looked like he’d been employed primarily for his ability to cultivate skin complaints & stand for long periods with his mouth open. Imagine Mike Leigh directing Mr Bean. It was worse. Let’s get something straight here. I owned a specialist music shop. I wrote the book on retail ignorance ( called “Because I’m better than you” in case you’re interested ) & at my peak, I was literally a machine, capable of belittling vast amounts of potential customers before I’d had my first brew. But my mix of nonchalance & contempt had been earned. I’d put the hours in, studied at the feet of some of the masters & earned the right to be called a cunt. Theirs is different. They’ve paid no attention to their craft nor served any apprenticeship. Theirs is born of mere stupidity &, as such, completely unforgivable. JD Sports – lick my big fat spud.


Ex Forces Security Guards


The company I work for has its own security employees , which tend to be mainly ex Forces. Now, I’ve always been deeply suspicious of most people who’ve been in the army to start with. Anyone who actually craves a regime of being constantly shouted at, hiding behind garden walls in Belfast & polishing buttons till their fingers drop off is at least a chromosome short in my book. Furthermore, I genuinely believe they become institutionalised. Don’t believe me? Take note how many of them still sport thick, luxuriant taches. Still not convinced? Ask one of them to iron your kecks then tell me I’m lying. Anyway, I’m getting distracted. No, my main gripe here is that, for some bizarre reason, they’re obsessed with doing stuff for charity. Not one week goes by without some of them walking up every mountain in Wales in just their regimental underpants or swimming for 14 days non-stop in a bath of piss or something. All for a bunch of charities they’ve no personal interest in & all conducted in the kind of nauseating barrack room bonhomie they’ve never quite managed to shake off. Why the constant competition? Surely it would be easier all round for them to take out their penises & let an independent adjudicator decide who has the biggest? What void in their life are they trying to fill? Still, I suppose if it helps them block out the memories of Jonty getting his knackers blown off mid yomp in Goose Green ( not the Labour Club ) or stops them drinking themselves to death in their lonely bed sits, all power to em.


Advertisements on TV


Yes, yes. I know. An easy target. But believe me, they’re getting worse. There’s so many of them that I don’t know where to start. Dave from the Royle Family grinning like a mongol because he’s saved a couple of quid on his insurance? Quote me happy – lick my spuds. The Bob Mills lookalike who leathers his wife in the face with a ball while she’s filming him arse licking some “borrow your way out of debt” style  company? Still, gotta look on the bright side - at least there’ll be some video evidence of the initial amount borrowed to show the coppers after his fat kneecaps have been snapped for non-payment. Both annoying in their own ways but mere distractions  when compared to my current “faves”. BT has a running theme at the moment which roughly goes as follows : the gurning cock from My Family has somehow pulled a bird who was last seen as one of the lesbians in Queer as Folk. However, she has 2 kids but this doesn’t matter as it’s the noughties now so they all move in together & he has to do homework or ask one of his equally twattish mates called Rachel if she knows emergency pursuing teachers ( what the FUCK is pursuing? ) because his aspirational bird has pissed off to Penge bonding socially with other middle managers. Trust me, it’s even more annoying than it sounds. Yet, compared to the Garnier Nutrisse ad, it’s positively Bergman’esque. In this, Davina McCall ( unbelievably  – not pregnant ) wanders into shot, fresh from stealing a living shouting at some androgynous mass of low slung denim & hair extensions who’s just been voted out of Big Brother. The phone rings. It’s her mother. A worried look crosses Davina’s face as her mother quizzes her on her new hair colour & whether it’d adversely affect its condition. Now, I’d never lecture anyone on childcare but I’ve got to question Mrs McCall’s priorities here. She thinks nothing of ringing to berate her daughter for changing her hair colour yet presumably was nowhere to be found when the teenage Davina was getting hopelessly addicted to smack, living rough & getting crap tattoos on her wrist………….shame on you Mrs McCall. Shame on you.


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