1.) America............
Any country responsible for selling food by the bucket-load (KFC's so virtuous they took the word chicken out of the arrangement entirely so now it's possible to buy a bucket of adventitious meat-substitute), the insufferably middle-American imbecilic cokc-habiliment that is the Britney Spears/Christina Aguillera/Madonna/Sheryl Crow hybrid, being in proud possession of a population more unfit and impressively proportioned than Rita McNeil after an all-day sesh at Uncle Willy's, having a foreign policy so bereft of reason, civility, and stoicism, Dennis Rodman, Friends, the ersatz-intellectual rubbish that is Frazier, Hollywood's prodigious discharge of factually preposterous malignance under the auspice of 'cinema', the scatologically and unearthly offense that is Seattle, no comprehension whatsoever in irony, subtlety or humour and Tom Hanks.
Every last thing mentioned utterly, consumately objectionable and completely unnecessary to the successful continuation of the human race. Saddam should have simply hidden with his weapons of mass distruction as the useless twats would never have found him and the self-proclaimed greatest democracy ever assembled (trademark pending Disney Corp.) remains the only 'civilisation' to ever use atomic weaponry on human beings.
Get fcuked America. If you can't do that, at least get Into the TTP Closet.
2). Parsnips.........
The parsnip is an evil, scheming, bounder of a vegetable. If cooked properly, it masquerades as a roast potato (good) yet taste like week-old regurgitated baby food (bad.....presumably). Completely superfluous to everyday existence, I have yet to meet one solitary person who will admit to liking parsnips. If I ever do I will kill them. The spindly-shaped root should be tried in a Vegetable High Court for Treason under the Rubbish Root Vegetable Act of 1963 (Geneva).
3). Loose change...........
Loose change is the bane of my life. Bleeding heart liberals will be bleating about how I should be pleased I have change, loose or otherwise, as there are millions of people in the world with nowt. Fcuk off. There exists a character who proudly holds up a queue of ten while he enthusiastically counts out change to pay for his new £9.95 lavatory brush. We've all been there. And he's a cnut. Then there's the character who keeps his loose change in a little purse inside his wallet. A 'murse' if you will. He's a cnut too. No man should be seen counting loose change with a queue of people waiting. Full-stop. No man should EVER be seen counting out loose change out of a murse. What a cnut. What are the options? Discard all surplus loose change at the end of every working day into a recepticle, generally speaking a large (preferably empty) alcohol bottle? Then what? Look like a prize cabbage as you trot down the bank of a Saturday morning only to be told by the spotty bank clerk that you must go home and wrap all your change into those Mephistophelian little paper things that, and this has been scientifically proven by boffins at the Welsh (Outer) Space Programme, are simply not made to hold anything, nevermind loose change? No future in that caper, thanks all the same. So where does that leave you? Give it to charity? A lovely idea but, alas, my quarter-Scottish ancestry finds that notion repugnant.
So, loose change. Get yourself Into the TTP Closet and do not darken my door ever again.
4). Political Correctness..........
Here's a scenario. Let's say the manager of a business unit is South African. Implicit in that, chances are, he has been raised in a middle class South African household. This man is white and in his late thirties. Odds are good, while growing up, his family had servants during Apartheid. Let's find this gentleman in modern Britain with a staff of eight. Let's now analyse the make-up of the eight people. Four English women, one Zimbabwean, one Englishman, one Canadian, and a late-twenties woman from Nigeria. What happens when the Nigerian pulls the race card? A holocaust of political correctness gone mad. What causes the Nigerian to pull the race card? The mere suggestion she might not be actually doing any work. Up she gets, huffing and puffing and mumbling away in her local dialect (which sounds like a seagull stepping on twigs) and away she goes down to Human Resources for the umpteenth time. What happens when one of the Englishmen suggests, seemingly jokingly, that the Canadian might be a wanker with no previous knowledge of his mother? Gales of laughter from everyone, including the Nigerian. When she's not down in HR.
As a social experiment it is my fantasy (well, one of them) to go down to Human Resources and, having made an appointment, sit down with two of the girls (I would never trust any man who worked in HR..... shite, I can't say that, it's not PC) and complain, earnestly, of the treatment I had been subjected to. As an anglo-saxon protestant with blue eyes (and lovely teeth) I would expect to be laughed all the way back ot my desk. Why's that? I cannot play the race card. People think it's funny. They're right. Were I, however, a bandy-legged lesbian amputee from the outer regions of Mesopotamia with a speech impediment and a sleepy eye, I'd be given blank cheques drawn on impressive bank accounts, a semi-detached one-up, one-down home with all mod cons and, in all likelihood, the key to the city and a publishing or record deal.
If anyone dares tell me that, 'visible minorities have been kept back too long by the white man', I'll fcuking have you. They haven't by me and I categorically refuse to take even the slightest bit of accountability for anyone else's actions, white or otherwise. Political Correctness, please meet Inside the TTP Closet so I can batter you senseless you spawny white American twat.
5). Coventry
After being totally and utterly bombed in the war (half a cathedral and one street are all that remain) it was rebuilt with the "great on paper" idea of putting a ring-road around it for ease of travel. This does provide a quick travel around the city, but, unlike London's M25, it has about a couple of miles circumference so the massive dirty elevated road can be seen form virtually anywhere in the city centre. Under the ring-road they built loads of car parks which just get full up of shite with the rest of the rebuilding consisting of large, square, grey tower blocks. This is a town which, during the 1980's, dreamt of housing the disaffected of London never quite managed it and consequently became a haven of mediocrity with hundreds of identikit suburban housing estates filled with middle managers. Their hateful offspring fill the town centre at weekends whilst queuing to gain entry to the growing number of revolting chain pubs. They smoke Marlborough Lights and sport a profusion of cheap gold jewellery and Ben Sherman shirts.
All the old shops have closed and those not replaced with O'Neills (a hyper-real simulacrum of an Irish pub) have turned into "Everything's a Pound". Last time I was there was a duty call to my ex-girlfriend's parents gaff. The visit climaxed in a traditional visit to a late night chip shop, where the Rubenesque girl in front of us ordered chips, chops, cabbage, gravy and mushy peas, and whiled away the time while her order was being prepared by screaming to her mate, (who was down the end of the street with some pustuled consort): " 'Ave you shagged 'im yet, Nicola?"
It could be worse, you may say. It is. It's just that if I think too hard about it, I start to feel somehow... dirty. I do hope none of you are ever required to visit. .The only good things about Coventry are that their shite-bag football side was relegated and is now, officially, shittier than shiny shite and that it's easy to travel out of.
Camus said that the canals of Amsterdam are "like the concentric circles of hell". Well, I say that the concrete car parks of Coventry are like the boils on Satan's ringpiece. Maybe not as poetic but certainly as valid.
Any country responsible for selling food by the bucket-load (KFC's so virtuous they took the word chicken out of the arrangement entirely so now it's possible to buy a bucket of adventitious meat-substitute), the insufferably middle-American imbecilic cokc-habiliment that is the Britney Spears/Christina Aguillera/Madonna/Sheryl Crow hybrid, being in proud possession of a population more unfit and impressively proportioned than Rita McNeil after an all-day sesh at Uncle Willy's, having a foreign policy so bereft of reason, civility, and stoicism, Dennis Rodman, Friends, the ersatz-intellectual rubbish that is Frazier, Hollywood's prodigious discharge of factually preposterous malignance under the auspice of 'cinema', the scatologically and unearthly offense that is Seattle, no comprehension whatsoever in irony, subtlety or humour and Tom Hanks.
Every last thing mentioned utterly, consumately objectionable and completely unnecessary to the successful continuation of the human race. Saddam should have simply hidden with his weapons of mass distruction as the useless twats would never have found him and the self-proclaimed greatest democracy ever assembled (trademark pending Disney Corp.) remains the only 'civilisation' to ever use atomic weaponry on human beings.
Get fcuked America. If you can't do that, at least get Into the TTP Closet.
2). Parsnips.........
The parsnip is an evil, scheming, bounder of a vegetable. If cooked properly, it masquerades as a roast potato (good) yet taste like week-old regurgitated baby food (bad.....presumably). Completely superfluous to everyday existence, I have yet to meet one solitary person who will admit to liking parsnips. If I ever do I will kill them. The spindly-shaped root should be tried in a Vegetable High Court for Treason under the Rubbish Root Vegetable Act of 1963 (Geneva).
3). Loose change...........
Loose change is the bane of my life. Bleeding heart liberals will be bleating about how I should be pleased I have change, loose or otherwise, as there are millions of people in the world with nowt. Fcuk off. There exists a character who proudly holds up a queue of ten while he enthusiastically counts out change to pay for his new £9.95 lavatory brush. We've all been there. And he's a cnut. Then there's the character who keeps his loose change in a little purse inside his wallet. A 'murse' if you will. He's a cnut too. No man should be seen counting loose change with a queue of people waiting. Full-stop. No man should EVER be seen counting out loose change out of a murse. What a cnut. What are the options? Discard all surplus loose change at the end of every working day into a recepticle, generally speaking a large (preferably empty) alcohol bottle? Then what? Look like a prize cabbage as you trot down the bank of a Saturday morning only to be told by the spotty bank clerk that you must go home and wrap all your change into those Mephistophelian little paper things that, and this has been scientifically proven by boffins at the Welsh (Outer) Space Programme, are simply not made to hold anything, nevermind loose change? No future in that caper, thanks all the same. So where does that leave you? Give it to charity? A lovely idea but, alas, my quarter-Scottish ancestry finds that notion repugnant.
So, loose change. Get yourself Into the TTP Closet and do not darken my door ever again.
4). Political Correctness..........
Here's a scenario. Let's say the manager of a business unit is South African. Implicit in that, chances are, he has been raised in a middle class South African household. This man is white and in his late thirties. Odds are good, while growing up, his family had servants during Apartheid. Let's find this gentleman in modern Britain with a staff of eight. Let's now analyse the make-up of the eight people. Four English women, one Zimbabwean, one Englishman, one Canadian, and a late-twenties woman from Nigeria. What happens when the Nigerian pulls the race card? A holocaust of political correctness gone mad. What causes the Nigerian to pull the race card? The mere suggestion she might not be actually doing any work. Up she gets, huffing and puffing and mumbling away in her local dialect (which sounds like a seagull stepping on twigs) and away she goes down to Human Resources for the umpteenth time. What happens when one of the Englishmen suggests, seemingly jokingly, that the Canadian might be a wanker with no previous knowledge of his mother? Gales of laughter from everyone, including the Nigerian. When she's not down in HR.
As a social experiment it is my fantasy (well, one of them) to go down to Human Resources and, having made an appointment, sit down with two of the girls (I would never trust any man who worked in HR..... shite, I can't say that, it's not PC) and complain, earnestly, of the treatment I had been subjected to. As an anglo-saxon protestant with blue eyes (and lovely teeth) I would expect to be laughed all the way back ot my desk. Why's that? I cannot play the race card. People think it's funny. They're right. Were I, however, a bandy-legged lesbian amputee from the outer regions of Mesopotamia with a speech impediment and a sleepy eye, I'd be given blank cheques drawn on impressive bank accounts, a semi-detached one-up, one-down home with all mod cons and, in all likelihood, the key to the city and a publishing or record deal.
If anyone dares tell me that, 'visible minorities have been kept back too long by the white man', I'll fcuking have you. They haven't by me and I categorically refuse to take even the slightest bit of accountability for anyone else's actions, white or otherwise. Political Correctness, please meet Inside the TTP Closet so I can batter you senseless you spawny white American twat.
5). Coventry
After being totally and utterly bombed in the war (half a cathedral and one street are all that remain) it was rebuilt with the "great on paper" idea of putting a ring-road around it for ease of travel. This does provide a quick travel around the city, but, unlike London's M25, it has about a couple of miles circumference so the massive dirty elevated road can be seen form virtually anywhere in the city centre. Under the ring-road they built loads of car parks which just get full up of shite with the rest of the rebuilding consisting of large, square, grey tower blocks. This is a town which, during the 1980's, dreamt of housing the disaffected of London never quite managed it and consequently became a haven of mediocrity with hundreds of identikit suburban housing estates filled with middle managers. Their hateful offspring fill the town centre at weekends whilst queuing to gain entry to the growing number of revolting chain pubs. They smoke Marlborough Lights and sport a profusion of cheap gold jewellery and Ben Sherman shirts.
All the old shops have closed and those not replaced with O'Neills (a hyper-real simulacrum of an Irish pub) have turned into "Everything's a Pound". Last time I was there was a duty call to my ex-girlfriend's parents gaff. The visit climaxed in a traditional visit to a late night chip shop, where the Rubenesque girl in front of us ordered chips, chops, cabbage, gravy and mushy peas, and whiled away the time while her order was being prepared by screaming to her mate, (who was down the end of the street with some pustuled consort): " 'Ave you shagged 'im yet, Nicola?"
It could be worse, you may say. It is. It's just that if I think too hard about it, I start to feel somehow... dirty. I do hope none of you are ever required to visit. .The only good things about Coventry are that their shite-bag football side was relegated and is now, officially, shittier than shiny shite and that it's easy to travel out of.
Camus said that the canals of Amsterdam are "like the concentric circles of hell". Well, I say that the concrete car parks of Coventry are like the boils on Satan's ringpiece. Maybe not as poetic but certainly as valid.