Meet Dave. Dave is a prick. Dave is a stupid prick. Dave is not your average prick no Dave is a whole new species of prick. A super sonic mutated species of prick called Daviddusstupidus. He does no one any harm but when you see Dave you want to lamp him. It's not like he asks for a lamping it's just that he needs one. To be fair to him he don't need a slap but you just want to sit there and slap him - he's got that kinda face. Fook me if Mother Theresa of Calcutta, not sure why I put where she was from it's not like there was two of the old biddies knocking around. So yes even Mother T would want a piece of this bloke.

You don't believe me do you - well here's a little taster of the stupidity - the annoyance - the damn irritating - the excruciating auuurrrrhhhggggg - that is Dave.....

Right I might have built it up a little too much so lets calm it down slightly.

First of let me discibe ol' Dave. He's like a very hairy Hobbit type of bloke. He has this brown curly hair which looks like a mass of pubes from different people stuck with some chewing gum to his head and to emphasis the fact that he's a walking pube he has grown a beard and moose-stach (just to prove I know how to spell moustache - here it is moustache) but Dave has a moose-stach. And jumbo glasses I'm not against I'm not a glassist some of my best mates are Magoos but in this day and age do you really need them? Anyhoo Dave Magoo and his pubic face hair is a builder - a crack addicted Can we fix it fooker - yes we can tosser - Bob that's the little bastard Bob the fooking builder and his black and white cat - no hang on a jiffy cat belongs to Pat the postman Bob's got a...a...a...a big nose, fook knows, anyway Dave Magoo wears jumpers big old woolly ones. Brown woolly jumpers, that looks as though he himself knitted from a passing hamster. Brown woolly jumpers in the heat. Brown woolly fooking jumpers when the sun is blazing down upon the earth. I don't like brown woolly jumpers.

Again I digress he came into work on Sunday to do some bits and pieces. He tried to gain access to the building via a locked door - and? - you might ask. Well these doors are glass revolving doors. These glass doors have 2 very large cones placed inside the door. It's a Sunday and he thinks these doors should be opened. I pointed at the door which I can open he tried the other one then he tried the revolving door again I pointed to the door again he came to the door looked at me through the glass then pushed the door (there's a handle on the outside signalling that you pull) he looked at me again I tried to do a pulling action he walked to the revolving door - again. Did he think I transported myself to the doors and removed the cones opened the fooking doors whilst he was looking at me. After he done this several times I started to get a little pissed with him - foook me a drunken shaved monkey with one hand and a toupee could have done better. He finally cracked the code - thank fook he wasn't in charge of cracking the enigma code we'd all be eating Bratwurst for breakfast instead of Muesli !!! As soon as he came in I write the date in the folder so he could sign for a pass. He write along the same line as the date. When I explained what he done he said "I ain't with it this morn' " The fooker drove to work - how scary!! Then as I though I might be a little hard on the poor dear I opened the gate. He struggled for over a minuet with the turnstile - I had told him several times the gate is opened. THE MANS GETTING TO ME. He finally saw the gate and walked through.

After several minuets an alarm sounded. Duffelcoat Dave had opened a fire exit - god only knows why, he's the only one on site.... This would happen 5 times throughout the day...

After a couple of hours or so - Pubeface comes into reception. He's stood behind me for a couple minuets. I tried, with all the will power in the world not too look, but my skin started to recede, the hairs on the back of my neck pricked. I looked at him - "are the contractors that were here yesterday in today?" He looked worried. I replied no, asked why? Dave looked sad " they've half inched my black bin bags and a pot of varnish....." I was stunned. I explained that one of the fellas drove a top of the range Jag. The others have had long working relationship with the company - I don't think they'd nick your bin bags. "They're really thick ones"...........

The old fella had a phone call from the funeral directors the other week asking what he wanted to do with the ashes of his wife. His, dead wife that is for you new readers !!!!

Now, this begs the question, where the foook have they been? It's been over seven months. Is there a room full of urns. Rows and rows of urns floor to ceiling stretching out into the horizon or have they just got the one? A solitary urn sitting on some foookers mantle piece collecting dust (I'm sure my old dear had put on weight when they emptied her!!!!) or was it being used as an ashtray!!? Do they wipe it down if someone else decides to get cremated is this how they discovered the dust like remains of my mother?

I must admit the old man was a bit upset. He thought it was all done and dusted (?!!) as it were. So this was a bit of a kick in the gnads for him. He phoned me whilst I was at work and told the missus, who in turn relayed the message.

When I got home around 20:00 on the Sunday I returned his call, to see if he was OK. He was. We then arranged to scatter the ashes and although he said you don't have to come I think he would have been a little pissed if I didn't turn up. Pay the last respects - again type thing. as we spoke he told me he had invited a couple of her sisters and a cousin. Fook me a jolly boys outing.

We were unable to arrange it for the Wednesday I was off, something to do with not being able to arrange transport - I did offer to collect her on the bus but they weren't interested, I also said they could post them - but again not interested. So we set it for the following week. Which was a bit of a pisser really - the kids were down her parents and I was off this week, but - it couldn't be arranged, so, next week it was. I told him it had better not be windy, don't want to be covered in her ashes.

What do you wear top a scattering? Do you go all formal is it casual dress - foooking a clowns outfit?? Never been before, well that's a bit of a lie, my mate scattered his grandads ashes in Magaluf once and the wind changed just as he done the scattering and he swallowed half the foooking urn - I pissed my panties !!!!

I opted for a dark suit and blue shirt a bit smart a bit casual - smasual I think it's called!!!! Me, the missus and the kids arrived at the cemetery about 10:10 the kick off was 10:30. It was a nice place, full of headstones (not sure what I was expecting - a Ferris wheel perhaps!!!) and it was dead peaceful (had to get at least one pun in don't ya!!!) it really was nice - the one on the other side of town is a bit modern and sparse but this was like an old black and white horror film set - spooky but spooky nice.

As we waited and waited and waited - I thought we might be in the wrong place, or got the wrong time so I phoned the old man. Stuck in traffic, there was a bad accident 2 cars has twatted each other and it went all Pete Tong, fair shout he arrived before kick off. My aunt was with him, she's a stuck up foooking bint. But she's alright you just have to take her in small doses. An example of how nobbish she is - were stood in the cemetery, just about to scatter the ashes of my dead mother and she's asking my missus, who she met breifly for the first, at the old dears funeral, about the cost of my house!!!! She's asking how much it's worth and are we decorating - I was told this afterwards.

Dad goes to find the fella who's doing the business. Sign paperwork or whatever it is you do before you can scatter them. When he comes out of the office a little old man is showing him the way, he's dressed in a blue shop keepers coat, the fella not the old man!!! Under his arm is a plastic - a foooking plastic brown urn. I was expecting a foooking proper fooking urn, brass at least but fooking plastic - just not cricket!!! He was also twirling his spade, like a fooking Majorette.

Whilst the old man and this Hurberts coming up, my aunt - her names Liz by the way is phoning mums other sister who's also my aunt to find out where she is. Stuck in traffic. This is slowly turning into a farce, Herbert and Dads fooked off down this little path expecting us all to follow. Liz is staying up the top to met her sister who's name is Kate. Phew you still with me? I decide to follow the old man and Hurbert. Liz asks if we can prospone it until Kate and crew have arrived. I must point out at this time I didn't want them there in the first place, but it was mums sisters and all that jazz so.......

I tell the old man that there's a slight delay. He and Hurbert are talking like best buddies ~(later find out from the old man a coffin costs the funeral directors £45 - they sale it for ten times that!!!!!) We wait for about 15 minuets for the others to show and when they do fooook me it's enmasse, it looks a bit like the sceen from Monsters Inc, when the monsters go into the scare room. There's fooking hundreds of them - well at least 5. Kates dressed in a woolly jumper - a brown woolly jumper and this foooking idiot called Tracey, she's some sort of relation from up north, which explains a lot, fuck me she didn't even brush her hair - ginger hair, curly hair shooting out at all angles springy strands of grey hair mixed in with ginger hair. And would a bit of slap on her mush killed her (sorry - translation a bit of make up on her face killed her?) - oh I think not - fooking hell she looked worst than some of the poor bastards that were permanent residents. And too be honest she ain't that pretty to start with. She's also brought her, which I found out a lot later, daughter Kimberly. Fooking Kimberly - my mate Kimmmmerblay.

I look at the missus who in turn looks at the old fella and fook me what a rag bag bunch of tossers they look!!!! Hurbert leads the way then we follow. We come upon a little flower bed and Hurbie digs a hole. He then asks if anyone wants to scatter them - which we all decline. Then he pops the lid and pours. Then fills the hole and fooks off.

We stood for a couple of minuets, then some more then more minuets passed - foooking hell I'm getting bored...... A few more fook this I'm off. I chat quickly to the old fella and I'm gone - not because I'm upset but I thought he might like to be alone and to be honest no foooker was chatting and stood in a cemetery ain't my idea of fun.

All I can see it was something and nothing - I just hope this will be the last time I have to bury her - lets hope this time she stays down!!!!

RIP Mam x

I have hippies growing at the bottom of my garden !!!! No lies.

I never chose to have hippies growing at the bottom of my garden, but if I did, it would be fully fledged hippies - you know the sort smells like a jitter - wears jitter juice. Always dangling a raggy (raggy = roll up) outta their mouths. Long hair, maybe in a dreadlocks type of style, in a ponytail and baggy clothes in fact there was a hippie in the other street. He was much nicer - dreadlocks, green woolly jumper with holes in and wore baggy trousers he smelt like weed, not like he wee'd but like weed, he looked the real McCoy. Unlike my hippie. Who has a shaved head, and a twitch. I should have grabbed him whilst I had the chance his van was much nicer as well. I think we could have become friends.

Sadly the hippie we have is living in an old grey BT van at the bottom of the garden he has a mate with him. I think she's female - wears long green skirts and boots, she has a piercing in her nose. To be honest haven't paid much attention to them - I thought I'd let them settle in before taking an interest you know the sort of thing, pretend I haven't noticed them. But stare at them through the bedroom window.

I think these particular hippies (what's the name for them is it pride, herd, school or bunch?) twosome are nocturnal. Every night I hear him skittering about his van. I've peeked outta the bedroom wind to watch him. It's fascinating he scurries here and there poking and prodding his van then he jumps in and revs for about half an hour then reverses his hippiemobile to inches of other cars. Whilst this is going on hippietta is out the back trying to coax him back. Then he looks around like a fooking Merkatt then fooks off back inside the van to smoke grass or whatever hippies do in an old BT van.

We've decided to call him Ernie and the female Eric. I thought we'd call them Sky and Rainbow but everyone said that would be confusing - and rather gay.

Eric is a strange creature when she's not giving driving directions she hugs herself. She has the raggy fixed in her hand. in fact I've never seen her smoke it. And she has a million silver rings on her fingers. I heard her speak the other day - and fook me she's posh all "yes, gosh, what what" and all that bollocks. Took me by surprise it did. So we have posh well to do hippies living in an old beat up BT van. Still not my type of hippie though.

The local kids have started to feed them as well, which is a bit wrong. You can't domesticate these hippies they're wild creatures. They've started to put lentils down for them. Nothing too much just a little scattering here and there mainly on their van but some in the middle of the road. It's like watching a Road runner cartoon, the hippies come out, beep beep, start pecking at the seeds, beep beep. Then they spy a whole pile of them, beep beep. They stand around pecking. Then a car comes and beep beep the hippies are off......

Well if you're ever passing my house and fell like poking some hippies with sticks stop by - they don't mind.... Beep beep.....

I had to go to a funeral the other day, well didn't have to go, the only one I have to attend is my own. So I'll restart - a workmate died and the burial was last Friday. He was 46. I stood in the crowd of people desperately looking for a face or two which I recognised, I didn't know a fooking sole - which isn't surprising considering I only knew him from work. We were ushered in. Sitting on the back pew I had another quick look around trying not to catch anyones gaze, failing miserably I might add. I done the half smile cocking the head gesture at some moustached Doris in a floral smock type thing who was looking straight at me. The vicar stood at the alter - another quick scan around - Doris had finished scrutinising me, her glare now upon the vicar.

"We are here to pay tribute to Vera blah bla.........." as his words spewed from his mouth it became very apparent that the reason I didn't recognise anyone - I was at the wrong fooooking funeral !!!! By god what if upon leaving Doris asks me where I know the deceased... As I sat there I started to panic what if they think I'm some sort of pervert who gets off at funerals, how am I going to explain it was a mistake - do I just get up and leave??? They'll all be stood in Doris' front room asking who was the strange fat lad who foooked off half way through our Veras funeral and no one would say oh it was probably a mistake he might have joined ours by accident and they'll have a good ol' laugh about it. Oh no there would be anger and crazy talk, pervert would be said and - I dunno perhaps masturbation would be yelled no doubt from Doris.

Foooking hell I'm stood in a place of worship (?), well a place of death surrounded by complete strangers singing songs to a dead bird I don't know, does it get any worst - apparently yes - yes it does. Doris stood in the front looking around acknowledging people who have travelled a far to be here today amongst the list was uncle Mike who flew in from America, Robert and Julia had drove from Scotland her cousin who lived in Bath - and then her beady eyes looked at me - I started to slouch - she opened her mouth - here it comes. It's so nice to see so many faces some of which I don't know here today...... I nearly leaped from my pew pointing at Doris and shouting in your face you foooking old witch I didn't even know her ha who's feels stupid now..... But I composed myself - nodded my appreciation of her lovely words.

The proceeding carried on for a little longer. Then the casket descended. The family rose and left then we, the mourners left. I shook the vicars hand. A brief look around trying to plan my exit I spotted Alex an employee at the building I work - shite now what. If he sees me he'll think that's odd - he may even blow my cover - cover I'm not foooking James Bond... panic starts to shroud me - again. I look to my right, Doris is bent over - her flowery smoky dress type thing is billowing in the wind. Her arse is stuck in the air and her knee length stockings are seeing the sun for the first time. It's like a train wreck - can't take my eyes off it - it repulses me but at the same time it's captivating. My eyes will not move. Lord have mercy on my soul. I'm praying the wind doesn't blow any harder. Still I'm staring - there will be shouts of pervert and masturbation soon. I must break the spell - I blink.

In front of me the opening which I needed called. And thank god it wasn't Doris' opening.... Almost running I made a bee line. Out in the open, I took a deep breath. The queue for "my" funeral was massive. I stood in line trying to blend in, how difficult is it to blend - we're all wearing the same colours, the same dopey look on our faces.

Doris spotted me straight away. Our eyes met. Only for a short while - but it felt like an hour. She frowned. I nodded my best - "I'm so very sorry for your loss - please don't shout perv and point at me - it was a mistake" nod and I think it worked. She turned and chatted to some old fart who would probably be the next visitor to the crematorium - who knows I may go to it!!!

I think, most parents will tell you the, or, one of the best things about having children, and I do mean this, is you get to play with all the cool toy stuff, sadly all the cool stuff in my house is fooking girlie shite dolls, horses, make up and kitchen ware - it's sad in a way but already we are programming our kids into domestic goddesses - well except that the fact is they're bumbling half wits at the minuet with as much grace as a haemorrhoid ridden pregnant hippo with a club foot. Yes unfortunately my children are not blessed with grace - they have hmmm personality. Attitude. Anger. But not grace.

It's not like I don't play with my children but it always transpires into a fight - Barbi vs Angelina Ballerina and - whichever one I have, it's always the loser- not in the fight, because I kick ass but the missus look of disappointment is always the killer.
And I've also played with their farm animals - this is not a euthinisum but actual plastic farm animals, which in itself is such a strange concept - the makers of such crap have no idea about scale or if in Taiwan or someother kiddie sweatshop country the chickens are taller than the horses then slap me silly I ain't going there I know they do all this genetic mutant stuff I've read comics and are great lovers of the nuclear testing but by god these animals are completely out of whack pigs the size of ants horses smaller than sheep sheep the size of houses - they are the craziest race in the world are the Orientals, how did they end up in the north pole and more important why and the most important is why fooking stay there it's bloody freezing and why call yourselves Eskimos admit it you got lost and ended up in the fooking cold don't pretend it's not you all we have to do is look at the eyes - oriental. They make me pee my pants, just by looking at them and their writing makes no sense at all they can't pronounce R's and if they ask you if you require salt and vinegar (this usually only happens when you're inside a chip shop) it comes out as sore finger I don't mean this in a racist way one of my bestest mates in the whole wide world - well junior school was a Chinese fellow by the name of Tom Ah-tow. So you see it's not racial, but two Wongs don't make a Wright. And they certainly don't make toy animals to scale. It can seriously screw children up - they could go through life thinking a cow is smaller than a goat - this may be the case in Asia but in Europe - not sure about America but defiantly in Europe we like our chickens to be chicken size. we might cram them in small confined spaces so their feathers fall out and they get all distorted and yes without much water and feed them yeast to fatten the buggers up but at least they ain't the size of cattle. So yes I play farm animals with the wee ones but for some unexplained reason Jess always insists on the animals always have a toilet. She stands them up so their bums are pointing downwards and then does the noise - this varies from a full blown straining noise to a wee wee sound. If you don't do a toilet she gets a little annoyed and then a fight ensues but the mutant chicken always wins. And yet another disappointing look from the missus. Has this tale of political incorrectness have a point I hear you cry....Not really. It was a Sunday evening and the girls were fighting over a pushchair although they have one each both decided to play with this certain toy. (As I typing this a bloody big mutant bumble wasp has just flown in with a cow in its mouth - must be an import - cup and paper at the ready!!!!) and so I decided to educate them in the art of dominos - not playing but stacking them. Slight problem we don't have any dominos - so I improvised and used their building blocks. These were various sizes and shapes I started using the flattest ones - just for demonstration purposes to get the girls attention. Then after a while I used the other shapes as my confidence grew I made see saws and slides as my athuseasim grew my children attention diminished. I was like a man possessed protecting my creations with the vigor of a dictator nearly weeping as the big foot of Shannon comes crashing down on my mini utopia. I was a crazy man the only reason I started to play with the blocks was to entertain the children Ally was in the kitchen cooking or doing something so I thought I'd do the decent thing and keep them from interrupting her. My plan failed - failed miserably it did. Within a couple of hours - yes I did say a couple of hours. You should have seen my penultimate creation - it had bright towers topped with either cones or triangles, a slide of red, see saws bridges turned upside down so the arc was used like a half pike sitting on either side was cylinders one would roll and bash into the other causing this to roll onto another building block sending this toppling onto yet another series of blocks all of which would crash and push another group of blocks man it was the proudest day of my life.....I had a rear running down my cheek.
That was until Jess asked Ally"where's da?" the reply was, he's playing with his bricks in the front room,"why" I don't know why love, he just is.......

I built a tall tower just so the young uns could kick it down, it wasn't very good just a tower. Then with a heavy heart I packed the blocks away.

Standing in the doorway with the look of disappointment stood the missus.

Blogger ate my blog and now I'm pissed.....

So you have to put up with this one instead of the truly amazing one which blogger ate.....

I love really obscure facts and I thought I'd share some with well you, Sharon.

Most alcoholic beverages contain all 13 minerals necessary to sustain human life. No need to say anything.

The Earth gets 100 tons heavier every day due to falling space dust. If this is the case where is it all? In a couple of weeks times am I going to be able to open my front door? So what's keeping us up? Are we going to just drop one day?

If it isn’t moving a frog can’t see it. If the frog can’t see it, he won’t eat it. They also breath through their skin, this makes them very prone to toxins. They have 3 eyelids. 88% of all amphibians are frogs. Certain types can produce different chemicals ranging from pain killers - 200 times more powerful than morphinehallucinogenicenic - where the skin secretions are dried and smoked. They can be found in most places including the artic circle - Wood frog (what a stupid name) I never knew this before why was I never told this at school? You may say wrelevanceence has this to education well what relevance has algerbra - I've never used it, a = 2 b = 43, c = 6, d = for god sakes shut up.....

President George W. Bush is related to all other U.S. Presidents. In breeding - not sure if this one is true.

Nazi leader Adolf Hitler had only one testicle. Now this would explain a few things poor Adolf - I thought the song about him leaving his ball in Albert Hall was a kiddie song never actually thought he dropped a bollock. He also has the sChineseeese star sign as Napoleon - both short both hell bent on world domination. It makes me wonder why people follow him, Hitler this is Napoleoneaon. Irumoredured he may have been a Jew - his nans name was Schicklgruber and she used to work at a Jews house where she become pregnant. Come on he wanted an Aryan race - tall, blond and blue eyed Nordic individual. Does this sound like Hitler - no the man was nuts - he may have been blind and no one knew. Someone may have told him he was this tall blond blue eyed god and he thought bargain, bargain...... Bargain.

It's a Sunday. The sun is out and I'm in work. Today has got me thinking about the Sundays I used to have when I was a kid.
I lived on a council estate, we didn't have double glazing nor did we have central heating. In the winter ice would form on the inside of the bedroom windows. On Sunday mornings from my bed I often woke to the sound of bells - church bells or a band, a brass type of band. I assume it was a cub or scout thing going on. Also the sound of hoovering - Sundays, were, always, a day to clean.
We, my brother and I, my sister who had a room on her own, would desend the stairs to the front room. Here my father would have removed all furniture to the backroom and would be cleaning the room. Elvis or some other old cronner would be playing on the radio, in those days we had LPs and cassetts and on Sundays, out will come their records or cassetts.
In the kitchen my mam would be cooking a Sunday roast, pots of boiling water spilling over onto the cooker the smell of boiling veg and meat roasting would envelope the whole house. For some reason it seemed mum was out there all day.
On the sabath we had to clean our rooms (surley this is ilegal?) - now as children we aren't the smartest cookie in the jar. Me and my brother would mess about instead of getting on and finishing early. We had a game called Ninja. Each player would chose a weapon - a stick, a fishing line with hooks and weights, anything and everything. Then one person hides upstairs whilst the other goes downstairs and counts, a bit like hide n seek, with weapons. There are no rules. I remember one time I was hidding upstairs - well in the attic. I could here my brother coming upstairs and enter our room. Thinking I was a "proper" ninja I poked holes into the ceiling for spy holes, unfortunatly I couldn't see anything so the holes got bigger and bigger. Unbeknown to me who though he was doing a bang up job - my brother could see all these holes appearing in the ceiling....
As I crept out of the hatch he was there waiting for me with a large plastic tube wwwhhhack Falling out of the hatch - and remember I am a ninja, I swang this fishing line, the hooks digging into his head. Lets just say the following incident is / was too graphic to write - I have a scar on my right hand and he has a scar on his head. This didn't deter us the game just got worst. We fashioned togther a crass bow, made from a plastic tube and a fibre glass fishing rod peice, it fired the rest of the fibre glass rod. I shoot my cousin in the face with it - he lost an eye - no more ninja games - fooking poof!!!
We also had to clear the dinner stuff after lunch - including the cooker. This seemed to take forever and we constantly bickered as to who would do what - I always ended up drying. This took longer and you done more - you have to dry AND put away twice as much as washer boy over there. I did get my own back sometimes. My brother is 2 years approx older than me and wanted to go out with his mates I, on the other hand had no mates, lol, I think I was grounded most of my life to be honest, so every bit of washing up that came my way, as loud as I'd dare "REJECT" He had to rewash the entire load. He would always ask before the washing up - no rejects this time - OK I'd reply "REJECT"
Then just as he washed the last of the pots - I'd pop into the front room "mum do you want the cooker done as well?" my brothers heart would sink. We always knew the answer would be a yes....
So yes Sunday a time for the families a time for cleaning a time for little boys to play ninja and get the crap kicked outta them......