Saturday, 3 October 2009

The Three Little Pigs

There's been a few stories on here that have been re-written/blitzed to bits, for your reading pleasure, so I thought I'd continue the curve by murdering another one of our childhood favourites.

First off, the three little swines don't live in some fairytale field, as you'd expect of the images that have been installed by 'little you' when you were 6. They live in Norris Green, and from what I can see, their houses aren't built from straw or sticks. Just bricks. We're being dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st Century ladies and gentlemen, whether you like it or not.

The next twist has got to be is that the Big Bad Wolf is obviously a metaphor for some other being. It would be extraordinary if a Big Bad Wolf would be able to wander around a district of Liverpool unquestioned. A bailiff will be suffice. We'll stick with the pigs though. Unless you want to imagine them as Policemen. Depends on your stance on the latter really.

Anyways. The first little pig has set up a nice one bedroom terraced abode, fitted with bog standard wooden windows, courtesy of the Thatcher era. God knows us Scousers love a bit of Maggy. It's a 'front door on the pavement' gaff, just like them ones you see in that Hovis advert. Minus the little kid running through time, etc.

So the Big Bad Bailiff knocks one Little Pig Number One's house with that reassuring 'I'm here for your telly' knock. The walking slab of butcher's produce spies the Tax Bandit out of one of his shabby, council standard portholes at the front of his house and decides to make bacon and do a runner down the entry and visit Little Pig Number Two.

Now, Little Pig Number Two's house is a slightly better form of accomodation. There is certainly more than one bedroom. Two if you're interested. It is also fully equipped with single glazed UPVC windows and doors. And there's a small sized garden at the front. No soil. Just concrete and sadness.

Number One gives Number Two a swift text (fantastic pigs these, houses, phones and everything!) to inform him to lash the kettle on and fire up last week's X Factor for a bit of a blimp of Cheryl Cole on the Sky+. Dirty swines.

After a decent dose of consumer television, they both heard a familiar knock on the UPVC door. There's no need to look out of the window this time. The Big Bad Bailiff's knock is sound enough for them. They picked up their coats, made somewhat like Elvis, and left the building.

They jumped in their Ford C-Max (getting better this) and drove around the corner, out of Norris Green and just past the Walton Asda, to Little Pig Number Three's house. This is something of a step up to the other pig's houses. Front and back gardens, with actual turf. Wood effect UPVC windows. Four bedrooms, including an en suite bog for the master bedroom. And wireless internet. For all your Facebook needs.

It was getting a little later in the day now, and Little Pig Number Three decides to crack the tins of Carling open and lash the match on. Liverpool v Hull, 2009. Cracking match. After a large fix of pure mullering, the Pigs wind down with a custom made pizza from the Asda and a few more cans of lager. Until they hear an unnerving thump on the front door. Pigs One and Two seem unsettled whilst Little Pig Number Three calmly gets up and grabs another three cans.

The Big Bad Bailiff walked around to the bay window, where he could plainly see the three little pigs enjoying their pizza and ale. He knocked again, only to find that he was being ignored. So he huffed, he puffed, and he knocked again.

Evenutally, the Big Bad Bailiff did one and all the Little Piggies got blitzed and celebrated not paying their council tax. Or whatever.

So the lessons learned from this much altered fable? Wood effect UPVC windows are the future. Pigs hate spending money. You're probably better off hiding from bailiffs in a friend's house in Walton, rather than your house in Norris Green. You could potentially save money in this economic climate by sharing a house, rather than renting or buying individually. Or just pay your council tax. It's upto you.

Tuesday, 15 September 2009


In the country we live in, with it's poor economy, it's shootings and it's plethora of clouds, it is understandable why so many British people want to do one for 10-14 days each year. I myself stuck with this mass exodus this summer and did one myself. The holiday itself was fantastic. Speedboats, sun, and a Maltese ringer for Cannon or Ball. I'm unsure which one it is, and can't be arsed researching either. I take pride in my work.

First of all, a necessity during a holiday in a country where the temperature rarely drops below "The Surface of The Sun°C" is air conditioning. But at €12 a night (which equates to an extra €168 for the holiday), a set of plums like a tin of, well, plums, looked like the better option. That's a lesson learned for the next holiday methinks. Waking up in a pool of sweat and putting cloths in the freezer is something I don't wish to repeat.

Next up is my beef with sun lotion. It's generally well known that anything below is Factor 15 is just Factor 15 with water in it. But that's besides the point. I want to know why the sun tan stuff we brought along sounded more like a lolly ice. Ambre Solaire? I could have waded in drunk and drank it, it sounds so good. Did the trick though, I must say. (Sun tan wise, not quenching a drunken yearning for fruity goodness.)

We then have families who leave their children to their own devices while they seek a tan that resembles something of a mahogany-esque quality. Quite unsettling really, especially being on the roof of the apartments. I shall strike down these families now with scorn. Scorn and sunburn. And they kept reserving the best sunbeds. The bastards.

Holiday food is always a talking point. I myself found the variety over there a nice change. Instead of my usual fish and vegetables, I ate unusual fish. And vegetables. And a whole rabbit. And before you all write me off as a monster for eating poor Thumper, I will add that this rabbit was a convicted murderer. So it deserved eating.

And finally, the place of choice, which was Malta, was absolutely fantastic, especially given that I have family over there. I've got to thank Alberto Santos Dumont or The Wright Brothers (depending what side of the fence you're on) for the capability of flight so I could see my cousin's new baby son and my family who I have missed and, as a result of coming home, am continuing to miss.

Malta itself is a fantastic island, if not a little dangerous on the roads. The people are so very laid back. The weather is fantastic during your run of the mill holiday months. But a little passage such as this could not describe the little place sufficiently enough. Just go over there. You'll see what I'm on about.

Wednesday, 5 August 2009


I don't think there's much denying it anymore. Beside all of it's good little bits, like Poker and the other games you can play, Facebook is fast becoming the Oracle of the modern world. Facebook finds out about engagements before the majority of people's families. Facebook has also replaced the calendar as a way of remembering birthdays.

It is quite funny, and I don't participate in this part of Facebook very heavily myself, but before, or immediately preceding, anything that you may or may not do, a status change is always in order! You're off to bed. You're looking forward to tonight's night out. You feel a bit pissed off. For example...

Joey Burns is going to get in the bath.

Straight after this, people will like it. Or comment it, about how you should approach this bath notion, and what consequences it may have on your life. It's like an online conscience! Funny enough, a status update about getting in the bath can then lead up to a large conversation about what you've been up to that day, etc. Which has also been outlined in a previous status update about possibly eating a biscuit.

There's then the guilty pictures of a dirty night on the piss that you post up the next day. It's ritual for most now, this process. Your online conscience then views these pictures, tagging itself in the photos relentlessly. These tags are then links to other people seeing your stuff, which then leads to someone you were in a lift with back in the 80's adding you.

I do also genuinely feel that Facebook is very much a part of breaking up with someone these days. There's not just the Relationship Status that needs changing from In a Relationship to Single, or even It's Complicated! You then need to go through the friends that you've added as a result of this relationship in a view to blocking off any way of the ex clocking what you've been up to. Because this is literally the sole purpose of Facebook.

It's like Friends Reunited crossed with Big Brother. People want to see what you've been up to, every single second of the day. The success of Blackberrys and iPhones speaks volumes, as people want to be on top of the goss every single second of the day. You see people turkeying for their Facebook fix.

It seems that it was invented as a way for people to keep in touch with each other, but it seems to have snowballed into a bitchy gossip site where people are often bullied.

And Joey Burns doesn't likes this.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009


Diets are something I'd usually lump in with chunky women who feel that their neck breasts are becoming too much to handle when they're hiding it on every picture taken for the sake of the almighty, Facebook.

If you feel that your belly neck is a bit too X rated to publish to the watching world, then it's usually time to curb the cake.

I've always felt that not eating what you want, when you want was reducing yourself to some sort of torturous non existence, funny as that may sound. Not eating burgers, steaks, jalapeno covered nachos and fat drenched ice creams was denying yourself the pleasures that make being a man, so very manly.

But a simple booking of a holiday has prompted me to kick out the crisps, ban the bread and fuck off the fried rice.

After a week of hardcore dieting, I have now changed my entire outlook on food. I now pour scorn on chippy teas and look on with pity at the people drowning themselves in emulsified fats.

I'm not really that much of a food Nazi, but I've started actually thinking about my dinner and how it's going to affect me.

My usual ham butties have been replaced with a nutritious fish steak, with a plethora of vegetables accompanying them. There's also the pasta bake, usually from the night before, with chopped tomatoes and sweetcorn.

Now I would love to come on here and tell you that I am carrying these changes out scientifically and carefully, taking note of all the bits and bobs I'm lashing in my body and balancing them in a logical manner. But I'd be bullshitting, ladies and gentlemen. I haven't a clue about any of the ingredients so I'm literally picking generally healthy things and eating more of them, and taking the other stuff and eating less. But in general, I leave the picking up to my better half.

Now, I have listened to the Missus. I've lost weight, and I'm planning to continue to do so. In a healthy manner. I don't really fancy the LSD diet. The general consensus is fibre, good. Bread, bad. Salmon, good. Crisps, bad. Tuna, good. Coca Cola, very bad. Chicken, good. Biscuits, bad. Pasta, good, in moderation. And that's about all I can remember.

So, besides coming on here and chatting a bit of bollocks, I would just like to send a message to all you wannabe 'dietees' out there. If I can start eating healthy and lose some weight before going on one's jols, anyone can really.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

Alternative Endings to The Little Mermaid

(Blog First Wrote September 22nd 2007)

I've had a good day and what better way to celebrate is there than absolutley blitzing a popular children's story?

And the child's story to be killed? The Little Mermaid seems pretty good, as I've never seen it and I'm not likely to change that in the next few years of my life.

So how did the story really end? I'm not entirley sure, but after a small amount of internet research I found that the Prince fucked her off for a temple girl (who was really a Princess or something daft!) and she was meant to kill the Prince so she can have fish legs instead of human legs. But she can't, and dissloves in the sea becoming a spirit or some other shite that helps kids deal with death.

The Disney version however actually has a happy ending (which I can't be bothered with) I, personally, feel my endings will be a much better success than that old Mason, Walt Disney himself!

But, as I have previously believed, is not nearly slapstick enough for a cartoon! Here are my ideas for alternative endings for this animation picture.


The mermaid is chasing down her would be fella (can't think of his name, we'll call him Ken!) who's fleeing in James Bond's underwater adapted Lotus Esprit! God knows why he's getting off, he just is! Probably that sea witch flashed her biffer at him. Well, Ariel is chasing him down on a sea adapted Kawasaki bike. Jumping across sea ravines, and such like. Until she encounters a big spiky ball thing, on a chain. She leaves a ramp and cannot control her direction. She ploughs straight into the mine, which explodes from the inside! It shoots harpoons out, killing all the animals in the surrounding area, including that yellow fish who Ariel thinks is her mate, and Thumper from Bambi. Ken then ends up marrying Jenna Jameson, who cheats on him with Stephen Hawking. Money talks you see! And computers! (For Big Ste!) Ariel gets a job in the Oxfam shop, selling skirts to blind men and radios to dead people.


Unemployment becomes rife in the area of 'Under The Sea' and everyone starts losing their jobs. That Red Crab (can't be arsed researching) loses his job as a Circumcision Surgeon and Thumper is kicked out of his 'impregnation service.' Even that Octopus is kicked out of his band (he was the drummer, obviously.) Ariel is the only person left with a job, as a fishy prostitute. But as no-one has a job, no-one can pay for a bit of a seeing to and she starts starving. As a final kick in the cunt, Ariel then finds out she has a bad case of the clap. This eventually kills her, and all surrounding animals. Including Thumper. And the yellow one!


A new section of the KKK is sent underwater to discriminate against the fish human hybrids under the sea. Packed with Scuba hoods and harpoon guns, they dive deep into Mermaid territory to get shut of these fishy bitches! Ariel's Dad gets a cob on, but gets shot through the face with a harpoon gun by the racist scumbags. One by one, the Mermaids (and Mermen!) are executed. Ariel is the final one left. The KKK representative comes up and is about to dispose of the ginger bitch when she wriggles free and hides in a miniscule rock shaped nuclear bomb shelter. She encounters Tom Cruise in there, who she mates with and lays some Cruise eggs! A small family of sea-Cruises are born and the saga lives on.

Alchohol Poisoning

Ariel is fucked off by Ken, who deems her a freak when she reveals her weird fish arse thing! She goes down into the depths of 'Under The Sea' and finds a dingy bar where she meets Randy off My Name Is Earl. He deems her a freak too, and goes to seek some normality on dry land. Unable to cope with this extremely abnormal feeling, she starts on the Vodka, which we all know can potentially cripple Mermaids. She plunges into a drunken oblivion, gets hit by a Submarine on the M52 and falls asleep on the hard shoulder. When she wakes up, she encounters a bottle of Southern Comfort. This mixed with sea water can make people implode from the feet upwards. Fortunately, before this can happen, she has a fatal multiple organ malfunction and dies on the spot.


George W. Bush feels that Mermaids are plotting against him for the control of Iraq (a highly likely possibility!) He sends sea-politicians down to the town of 'Under The Sea' to find out what's happening. When they get there, they fail to identify themselves to the fishy doormen and are killed on the spot. Bush then sends out his fleet of Sea-Jedi's to go down there and check the place out. When they arrive, all of the Mermaids except one are dead. It's not Ariel, she's dead aswell. They kill the remaining Mermaid and leave the area. Brandon Flowers from The Killers then enters the area (no scuba suit, he's just too cool for drowning) and resuscitates Ariel who then turns into Goro off Mortal Kombat and swims up to Bush's bedroom in the White House. As she sneaks upto Bush in his bed, Lui Kang then mistakes her for the real Goro and kicks her through the wall. A brick lands on her chest and cracks a rib, which pierces her lung. She eventually dies of internal bleeding. A government sniper situated in Texas then shoots her through the head, confirming her death. Lui Kang is then held for thirty eight days for offences to Americans for a serious lack of a shirt.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

The UK Is Sinking Because...

(Blog first wrote 29th Ocotber 2007)

Fatties and immigrants apparently! What a laughable thought!

But, however, this is the reason! According to the Sunday Sport, which I wouldn't have noticed on the kitchen table but for the apparent lack of anything else whilst eating my full English! But less of that, I didn't buy it, it was just there! I digress...

It reads;

Britain will soon be under three hundred feet of water. Expanding waistlines and rocketing immigration means the country is struggling to cope with the increased weight.
Experts say the combination will leave much of the country flooded by 2031.

So there it is! Immigrants and fat people are making us sink. This, forgetting the fact that we do not live on a giant version of Fred the Weatherman's map! We're attached to a fucking large mountain scape under the water! But wait, there's more!...

"Top geologist" Dr John Archer said the impact the country's population and weight crises were having on the land was heading towards disaster.
He said, "What is happening to the UK is devastating."

A swift interruption for a moment, as you may want to go the toilet before you read this next bit. As you will either piss yourself laughing or actually do a poo from disbelief that a "Top Geologist" could make a comment like this...

"If you thought the tsunami in South East Asia was bad, wait until Britain goes under. It's going to make that look like a wave machine."

That was nail in the head time for me. He goes on to say that immigration in our country is like stepping onto a life boat that's already full!

So a silly article is highlighted with captions surrounding it, to give it more emphasis! The title is Littler Britain for fuck's sake! And a computer enhanced image of the Newcastle Tyne Bridge submerged is accompanied by 'The bridge isn't so wae high man' That makes for some intellectual reading!

My view on all of this stems from the fact that water levels are apparently rising anyway due to Global Warming. And this wasn't mentioned anywhere in this article! But don't get me started on the Global Warming debacle....

What I gather is that John Archer got his Doctorate in the post, possibly from an Internet site where you pay for honours! And the fact that he chooses the Sunday Sport as a medium to get his idea across to the people! And who buys the Sunday Sport! Drunk people my friend! And idiots! I mean, it's only selling point is breasts for fuck's sake! Buy a porno mag! They've got better writers! And much better pictures for those of you who are illiterate! Which gets me back to the Sunday Sport readers....

Sunday, 10 May 2009

Car Modification

(Based on original blog, wrote on 19th November 2007)

I read an article by the man legend that is Jeremy Clarkson the other day. Yes I was on the toilet; that's what lads do on the bog! It's an actual counter argument to the popular woman theory that men cannot multi-task. I assure you ladies, that we can. Also, it's a man thing which makes us feel more intelligent. And ensures we read daily. But I'm going off track, I shall continue...

Anyways, I read the article and it was wound around the notion that people who rag around in little shit box motors are fucking it up for the people who have a genuine love for cars. They are the prominent thought when someone brings up the term 'petrol head' or 'car freak' as I'm so commonly called. You imagine little boy racers in tweaked up hot hatches trying to impress people by driving like a complete and utter twat in busy built up areas. Not the refined types who simply see the beauty of a car for what it is.

I see cars and look at the shapes, the lines, the details in the lights and the way the size of the wheels fit in with the cars size and stance. I open the bonnet and don't stand there feeling manly. I know about engines, and although I don't feel I'd be able to fix one, I sure enough know how to fucking appreciate one. And I do feel that the majority of boy racers are fucking it up for the people like myself, who see a car and think 'fuck me that is a sight to behold!' And this is my argument.

I love cars. I love going fast in cars and realising a car's full potential, yet realise that in the middle of Orrel Park, going fast is clearly a dangerous thing to do! On the M62 at 3am in the morning isn't nearly as dangerous. That's why when we breach the 100mph mark, it's always an empty road! It's a stroke of common sense really!

And then there is the design of cars! It's reaching new heights these days. Wind tunnels are used in the design for family cars. You can't grumble at that! A new Seat Leon holds the same amount of interest to me as the new Lamborghini. The modern design of the car is brilliant. It's interesting and can keep your attention for longer than 5 seconds.

Then there's the technological advances we now currently enjoy. The Bugatti Veyron is a wonderful machine to look at but what really makes car people wet their pants is the technology lying underneath all of the CFRP (which is the proper name for carbon fibre ladies and gentlemen!) It has 1000bhp, which in laymans terms is a biblical amount of power! It has the pulling power of 10 1.6 Vauxhall Astras! It has ANOTHER 1000bhp, to cool the engine down! Which means it has the sheer power of about 25 Grand National line-ups. Just to make sure the engine stays at a reasonable temperature. Imagine that air conditioning in your house!

So my point I'm trying to make is that all of these boy racers knocking about in their Nova's (which funny enough, in Spanish, Nova actually means doesn't go! Interesting fact for you!) and their Saxo's are not the real car enthusiasts! They add spoilers to 'enhance aerodynamic effects!' The Escort Cosworth's whale tail spoiler actually lowers the car's top speed by 12mph. Which is why the rally going version of the car drove out with a different spoiler. Yet a lot of car modifiers, with their knowledge and all, didn't believe me and called me for all sorts.

They throw carbon fibre shite all over the car to 'lower weight!' What they're actually doing is throwing carbon fibre effect stuff on, which is the same material underneath carbon effect sheets which is actually heavier. And they do this in entirely inappropriate places. The wing mirrors! What physical effect will that have? A BMW CSL has a CFRP roof because it makes the roof lighter, lowering the car's centre of gravity, making handling the monster of an engine much easier. This act will have no effect on a N reg Vauxhall Corsa.

Neon lights? What effect does that have? It's the funniest thing I've ever seen! A Renault Clio driving past pretending to be a spaceship! You're driving a car! You must be over the age of 17, earning money to fund it! You should have grown out of this by now!

I hope I've taught you a thing or two! I love cars, as you probably will have guessed by now and I've always got time for someone who wants to gab about the new Aston Martin or even the new Fiat 500! My closing thought for this is that if car modifiers, petrol heads or tuners! Whatever you want to call them! If they love cars so much, then why the fuck are they hell bent on changing them?

Sunday, 29 March 2009

Cake Idol

I never thought that I'd say this, but the television is desperately short of top quality reality TV shows at the minute. Of course, we have the run of the mill examples such as Britain's Next Top Model, I'm A Celebrity, Dancing On Ice and our eternal favourite, Strictly Come Factor.

They run yearly, although it doesn't feel like it. There's an X Factor final every other week in my mind. This is an obvious ploy to keep people watching each year, which works of course. But we need something to grab the masses. It's all well and good creating shows which dancing fans would like, or singing enthusiasts want to watch every weekend.

Think back to the only good bit, let's be honest now, of X Factor. It's the numpties who come in and make a tit of themselves in the auditions. There's a nice blend of top quality talents, with the odd splash of shite thrown in for good measure. It's worked well since Pop Idol and I'm sure it'll work just as well 'til Simon Cowell hangs his pants up. Which brings us to my own idea.

Obviously the model programmes have covered the girls who are going to be gracing the covers of Vogue and.... so on. Celebrity Fit Club has covered the chunks who want to shift some titties. Why not a programme for the comfortably fat?

Michelle McManus was a massive hit, no pun intended, on Pop Idol. Everyone bought into the story. Fat lass, goes on reality TV show. Enjoys 15 minutes of fame. Disappears into mediocrity only to pop back up having lost weight. To disappear into mediocrity once again!

Why not introduce Cake Idol? The programme which allows you to be who you are. Unless you're less than a size 28 of course. People, who are comfortable with their size, competing for the ultimate trophy!

The auditions would obviously be in the Big Brother style. Videos sent in of portly housewives professing their love for Ronald McDonald. Or 10 second English breakfasts. The whole nation will be enchanted by the talent.

Then onto the competitive side! A bit of light cake tasting. Think I'm A Celebrity. Without the scorpions and the bollocks. Obviously there are points for correct answers but we need some charisma thrown in there as well.

Judge number one will obviously be Rik Waller. He's graced more reality TV shows than Ant & Dec. His petulant style will obviously keep viewers enthralled. We could throw a bit of Lisa Riley in there. Or all of her, by public demand. Then replace her with Harry Hill and we'd all have much more fun! And of course, we have Mr Motivator. We always need an anti-fat judge.

Of course, we'd all need to put this to the TV standards. It'd need the stamp of approval before we could unleash it on the masses, with it's obvious ethical connotations. There'll be a few chunks calling for my head before it get's put on telly!

But before we know it, Simon Cowell will have come in to take it to America. I'm sure it'd take off over there...

Wednesday, 11 March 2009


Fitness is a funny thing. Something which mankind used to uphold quite easily a million years ago now costs £40 a month in gym memberships and a low carb diet.

We used to run around killing dinosaurs and now we get a sweat on watching people do it on films. While chomping on Ben & Jerry's and Minstrels! This is probably more expensive than the gym, but that's for another blog!

In general, you go to the gym. Feel inadequate for an hour or two and then go home and eat crisps. Or is that just me? Either way, I'll run you through the experience, bit by bit.

So first of all, you sign the form which basically said if you're killed during your trip to the gym, it's your fault. Not the equipment, the staff or the serial killer that's been hiding in the male showers!

You start with a warm up on the treadmill! Running at about 9.5 whatevers until 5 minutes, and then upping it by 0.5 whatevers every further minute! This is all well and good when you're, say, not a fat fucker. Me though? Well....

After that, there's the weights machine. You'll stand there lifting what you feel is a considerably heavy amount while next to you, a bouncer who lives behind the cross-trainers is lifting a people carrier. Onto the next lot then!

Excercise mats! You can do sit ups, press ups. Even forward rolls. But then this means lying on the floor in a gym full of sexy people and panting while you attempt to excercise a muscle which is restricted by the ale gut your trying to get shut of!

Then you have the swimming pool. Or the jacuzzi in Joey language. You can't beat getting in the aquapool, then the sauna, steam room, etc. Although it's probably just a good way of resting those muscles I've done in whilst trying to fix them. Irony? I think so!

The Biggest Evil In The World

(Blog first wrote 24th April 2008)

There are many evil things in this world! Many say it comes down to money. There's also power! But I read something the other day which made my stomach turn. Something so grotesquely inhumane, I didn't realise someone could be capable of such a greedy and selfish act! And it came from the biggest evil of all! BINGO!

The very thought of bingo is enough to make a small child cry! It's dressed up as such a nice thing to do! Go play bingo, have fun and a drink and maybe win some money! They try and start children off young with little bingo sets! Planting the seeds early so they blossom into little bingo loving killing machines!

You think I'm joking!? Get onto this....

Three sisters fighting in court over how to share a £50,000 bingo jackpot!
Doreen Thomas and Linda Kenny have sued their elder sister for what they claim their slice of the cash.
They say the three had always agreed to share their winnings and had done so for three years.
But Edna Sexton, 59, who played the winning card, denies the promise applied to her win.

The article carries on to explain that police were brought in due to the bitterness of the argument! The sisters even called the DSS claiming that the winning sister should be stripped of her benefits due to the win she's brought in! Also, the one time that Edna Sexton was absent, the other two had a winner and still weighed her in with her share of the win! Nothing like a kick in the teeth to repay your kind generosity!

This makes it even funnier!

Mrs Thomas said she allowed Mrs Kenny to push in the queue to buy Mrs Sexton's winning card because her eldest sister was late.
She said: "If I had got that ticket, we would have our money and we would not have had to go through this"

Any game which can drive old women to court over a win should be banned! It's funny, but your not allowed to advertise ciggies or even alcohol, soon anyway! At least everyone knows what ale and fags do to you! They dress bingo up as this fun game where everyone fucking loves each other! The reality is that every old woman in there is like a little grey cage fighter!

Fingers crossed the two sisters get their money! I think it's terrible that the old boot has fucked them off! And a word of warning to anyone wishing to play bingo! DON'T!!

Friday, 20 February 2009

The Credit Crunch

Now it's a touchy subject the credit crunch. As it affects everybody! Apparently. We're reminded daily of this recession we're going through. People losing jobs because companies are going bust. People losing their houses, because they've lost their job, etc. You get the picture.

But the real implications of a recession only hit home when it affects you directly. I had one man on the phone to me in work today complaining about the stock market and what not. In all honesty, the only stock most people around my part of the world know of is the one you throw in gravy. It's not that different in my everyday life. I have no money, because I spend it. On stuff. This was the already case before the papers (and me, of course) were writing about it.

The main thing most papers or people seem to talk about is your every day shopping. We've always had Vosene as shampoo in our house. I haven't a clue if this is good or bad. Vosene could be the Ferrari of the shampoo world for all I know, but I've grown accustomed to it and that's that. Yet when you find that you're left with fake 'Asda's own' Vosene, you know things have become slightly difficult.

But then there is Listerene in the bathroom. This is priced astronomically high considering it has the taste of petrol and a window cleaner. It may clean your mouth to a higher standard than most mouthwashes, but so would bleach. And you can get that in lemon flavour! So perhaps our shopping hasn't been affected as much as it seems. My Mum still buys Dairy Milk's that I wouldn't dream of eating (Whole Nut, Fruit & Nut, etc) and we still have enough Bran Flakes to build a small village.

But noting supermarket's prices fluctuating is a little objective. Food prices have always went up. Every year. Recession or not. The utility bills are getting a bit silly though, that is true for everyone. But that's down to the numpties knocking about saying using electricity killed Flipper and his Polar bear mates. They've have to up their keep so as to cope with all the energy saving shite they've been forced into. I moved out of my parents' for a bit last year and the first thing I noticed was how expensive lager becomes when you have an electricity bill to pay.

I'm not saying that there isn't a recession going on. Because there clearly is. All of the banks have went tits up because they took your mortgage to Vegas and threw it on red! But the noticable stuff really isn't that bad! You can go bowling by ours for 1p. For the whole day! That makes a change! And the supermarkets trying to 'out credit crunch' one another is only going to be good for your cupboards! And if all else fails, we could all stop using electricity and keep the numpties happy!

Wednesday, 18 February 2009


The fashion life cycle. It makes me laugh. About 3 times daily. People walk past in a different top and all I can think about is that somebody has sat down, with a pencil and some paper, and thought, 'this would look handy on a supermodel for next weeks show.' Which advertises it. People like it.

They then get passed onto the shops. Who advertise it as looking handy on a supermodel. And then 'chunks' purchase them, in the aim of looking quite handy, like a supermodel. And then the top is replaced and it goes out of fashion. And has to be binned.

Don't get me wrong. I understand that looking good is paramount these days. But it's the direction of fashion that has me worried.

The very fact that Australians can, and have invented boots that would make Eskimoes feel toasty. The fact that the more dangerous the heel, the better it's meant to look. The very existence of platform shoes.

Lumberjack shirts are the best one of late. A shirt, designed to be worn by big hefty examples of male, is now only allowed to be worn by skinny examples of Indie culture. It beggars belief.

Yet I do understand the idea of wearing something so someone will comment or think it's fantastic. I love any type of classic Adidas trainees. They are fantastic and they just don't go out of fashion. They stand for the culture of our great city and how us nicking them on away days in the Eighties led to people around the country copying us, albeit with ever so slightly worse looking Hi Tech and Kappa examples.

So the hands down winner is the Samba. It'd kick the shit out a fashion belt and some skinny jeans any day.

Wednesday, 11 February 2009

Silly Adverts

(Blog first wrote 4th January 2008)

For fuck's sake! Why? Why do people do it? Why do people make these adverts to put them on the telly when, clearly, the average age of the viewer is around 11-16! Just prior to the age when you finally start to weigh things up in life with an adult head on your shoulders!

For example! A girl, clearly about 15, standing in a nightclub by the bar with some lad! I don't know if he's remotely attractive or not, nor care! This girl's clearly a bit interested! So, in the most abnormal bit of teenage behaviour I've ever seen in my entire life, she reaches for her phone and taps in LOVE2 and then her name (KATE) and his name (TOM) and sends it to some godforsaken 60 something number! This will clearly cost about £3, which will be taken off her Pay and Go credit or the phone bill her gobshite parents are obviously paying for!

So I'll explain the apparent reason for this bizarre new mating trend! If you text LOVE2 JIM STEVE to 60222 or something like that, you'll recieve a message saying how compatible you both are! Splendid! If only we could use this!

Of course, the girl on the ad recieved her text back! With a 9% compatibility! Oh dear, poor old Tom! She then goes on to swill Tom with her drink and walk off! Charming girl, I'm sure!

Yet I know that this advert is not going to make me text 60781 or whatever! I've got a fair shroud of common sense hanging around me, mixed in with a nice double shot of sensibility! But it's not me I'm worrying about! It's everyone else!

It's silly little teenage girls who think that they're going to find out the name of their firstborn child by texting BABY1 to 60771! And it will cost them £4 for the privelage! Even better! They'll keep recieving texts from the same shower of nazi twats, which will cost the another £1.50 or so for each text, telling them what their NEXT unborn child will be called! Even drunk people may text these things for a laugh, and end up being shafted for £30 off their phone bill every month, with no way of stopping it!

Or even better! Lots of girls will go out on a date with you, providing they've text the digital Cupid on 60891 to find out whether or not you've got bally crawlies!

But then you'll have to pay for everything because these girls will be skint after being fleeced daily by some tits who sell ringtones! But as hard as you try, they'll fuck you off eventually anyway. Because phone Cupid will text them to say you're cheating on them, with another man!

So a message to any would be romantics out there! Find out what the person is like by engaging conversation! Laugh, joke, talk about deep meaningful stuff like religious beliefs or football! Have a fumble in a side alley! Find out if you like each other, the good old fashioned way!

And if a girl is texting on her phone and you see her typing a 60 number in, run for the fucking hills! Or swill her, as you may aswell get the dig in before phone Cupid tells her you're bent!

Whatever Happened To Teletext?

(Blog first wrote on 10th April 2008)

After waking up in a relatively pissed state on a mate's wooden floor on Wednesday morning, (Champions League Quarter Final of course, do you even know me?) we quenched our thirst for a much needed cup of coffee, and then found another thirst that needed quenching! Info about the match lastnight! Now me, being the modern day man that I am, thought initially of the internet or Sky Sports News downstairs! And so would many! But my accomplace scoffed at that, instead offering me an alternative that I haven’t heard of in many many moons! Teletext!

Now some of my younger readers may only have heard of Teletext on Peter Kay (which I watched lastnight coincidentally!) with it’s wonderous offers of cheap holidays, and so forth! Think of in the 90’s!

So we puts it on, and my mate scurries through the various pages of pixelated fun! It was like the internet on a Super Nintendo! Only a little more basic! And sure enough, we catch a glimpse of Wenger moaning about penalty decisions and how over the two legs we were the worse team! And I don’t really understand French, as I speak the language of the winner! (Which is Scouse anyway!)

But these little snippets got me wondering! Who writes for the Teletext pages? Is that where Journo’s start? Writing for a meaningless medium of media (try saying that after a few pints!) I mean, it’s like sending smoke signals instead of a video call!

The new digital teletext is shit hot, and only because you can still watch Match of The Day while it’s on! The old one used to cut out all the black background and just leave pixels everywhere, which was probably banned as I remember my eyes bleeding as a result of it once!

Funny enough, after getting our fix of lovely lovely pixel success, we put the Playstation 3 on! It was like fucking Back To The Future! I swear I was strapped into a Delorean and hit 88! Which would have been a bit warmer than sitting in my undies, hungover, drinking coffee!

Whatever Happened To Kids TV Programmes?

(Blog first wrote 24th March 2008)

Now I know that the TV programmes are still there. Power Rangers and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are still going strong, in some form or another, yet the quality has diminished with time! No longer do you get Live & Kicking or even SM:TV Live standard programming! The last time I was awake of a Saturday morning, Dick and Dom were on! Shouting a lot! And being annoying! Kids were in the studio going fucking mental! I was sat at home thinking ’Shut the fuck up, it’s Saturday morning!’

And they wonder were behaviourally influenced Attention Defficit Disorder comes from! When I was a kid, ADHD meant that they’d ignore you while they watched telly and not concentrate in exams! Now they set fire to shit and beat up other kids! It’s evolving! What’s it going to be like in 10 years time, when they’ve got live executions?

And the new age pap, such as Yugi-Oh or something! I don’t even know what they’re called! Pokemon was acceptable, just! The games were pretty good and you could sell a Charizard shiny for a tenner when you were a kid, which was like winning the fucking Euro Millions! But now, all this anime shite is out of control! Kids are reeling off how much HP they’ve got left when they’re in fights in the street! And when they’re doing their Fire spells, I can’t see any fire at all! At least when we were kicking fuck out of each other pretending to be the Red ranger, we could do everything!

Whatever Happened To Board Games?

(Blog first wrote 24th March 2008)

Board Games

After a long gruelling weekend, involving beer, chocolate, failed flirtation experiments and more beer, me and the lads in La Casa De Los Pantalones were winding down with a few beers and some dvd’s when AJ decides a board game is in hand! And the board game in question, Hotel, dates back to before I was born yet it still looked in pretty good nick! With 1986 pasted about the board’s edges, it made me wonder what really happened to board games!

I mean, the game was fantastic! I think it was a glitz and glamour Monopoly alternative, and to tell you the truth, I think Monopoly has still won as I never recalled the game Hotel! Although I would have been a toddler during it’s first rounds so I can’t really comment!

Anyways, I remember during my youth that board games were, pretty much, the shit! Scrabble was a bit daunting for a young’un but it weren’t that bad! Trivial Pursuit was a piss take, but I don’t think it was designed around mid-90’s scouse youth culture! We were too busy watching Power Rangers and climbing fences! I think the rest of England were sitting around reading and educating their blossoming little minds! But anyways, I digress!

What I’m saying now, is that board games aren’t really noticed that much! I worked in the youthy and there was the odd kid who wanted a game of Connect 4 (odd kid meaning every now and then, not that he was a bit strange and that! ) or Kerplunk! But they lost interest and went to play Pro Evo on the PS2! When I was a kid, we all fucking loved Monopoly and Go For Broke! Mouse Trap was like a wet dream, only it was wipe clean, a bit less fiddly and you can do it in front of your Mum! Even the lesser know ones like The Great Museum Caper was a rasper! (I recommend someone look that up, it was a scream!)

Even Monopoly realises it’s had to change now! You don’t even use notes on it anymore! You’ve all got a credit card and just transfer money, like a flash fucker! Plus, it probably makes more money on selling the Monopoly game on the mobiles! I’ve got it! It’s good like but it lacks the old gamesfun value! Plus the computer is a clever cunt, buys everything!

I think they’ve all missed out to the Playstation generation. Attentions aren’t held unless your bombing fuck out of some poor fella’s house on Grand Theft Auto or taking off heads in some sort of zombie game!

Sponsor a Scouser

(Blog first wrote 30th April 2008)

I've just been watching Scrubs whilst going about my usual affairs when an advert comes on the telly! And it concerned sponsoring a dog!

And it's not a bad notion, don't misunderstand. The dog companies do need money and it is a very worthy cause, much the same as the other sponsor style companies. Just so I don't get my arse sued!

But to spout bullshit that your dog will then write to you every month? This paints a different style picture! Now I have the image of a sweat shop, full of poor little puppies slaving away at a typewriter with some mean Miss Trunchbull style character behind them cracking the whip! Poor little fuckers!

Then there's the notion that elephants, tigers and lions can all do the same! Sitting away writing a monthly letter of gratitude with their specs on at a mahogany desk, sipping a nice hot steaming cup of mocha!

They even blag that dolphins can do it! First of all they haven't got opposable.... anything! Then there's the small matter of a lack of underwater word processors! Yet the very fact that these adverts still get air-time suggests that the adverts work, or at least have done in the past!

And that got me thinking! (Always a good thing when you realise a blog is a little too short! ) Why not set up this type of thing for me mates and myself? Sponsor a Scouser!

We could go on an advert too! We could be running through the park, looking desolate! In desperate need of beer, Playstation games and humerous little toys (Transformer's paraphinalia will never be too childish! ) And we could offer meet and greets wth our sponsors! Swerve these poxy letters, we'd like to be face to face with our fans!

So if anyone feels the need to sponsor anyone or anything in the next few weeks, forget texting WOOF to 61234 (no bullshit, wrong number but you do text WOOF to sponsor a dog! ) Text CARLSBERG to 19777881840508 (or just e-mail me for my Paypal account and I'll happily take on any of your spare change to make you feel better about yourself! You have a nice day!

Wednesday, 21 January 2009


Now this blog was born from the keen urge to do sod all and sit on the toilet. And play Tetris. The most miraculous thinking place for any good writer. But the problem was, this was during work hours. And natural needs are to be thrown out of the window. Or you'll be sacked.

And this had me thinking of the perfect type of job. There's the jobs which are rewarding like building houses for the homeless or volunteering for a charity of some sort. You go home with a sense of pride, only to find there's no bread. Then there's the very highly paid jobs such as a film star or a football player. You go home on top of the world because everyone knows who you are, only to find there's too much bread. And I'm not questioning the fact that football players earn more in a month than Gordon Brown earns in a year. The skills some of those lads possess are phenomenal. You try shooting snot out of your nose without getting any on your shirt!

But then there's the more realistic jobs. The jobs that I, and possibly you, have to have. It's the run of the mill jobs. I currently work in a call centre on customer service for a fairly well known company. And I get by, plodding along all day answering the phone and writing notes. Then answering the phone. Then writing notes. Continue until bored.

And I've done a fair few different jobs. I've worked in a pub. Which basically means you're getting paid a shit wage to put on weight, get pissed and work unsociable hours. No thanks. I've also been a Youth Worker. Which was well paid and rewarding at the same time. But it posed the same problem as every job, form of education and civic duty rolled into one. When you go for a shit, people ask where you are.

And how long you've been there. Now I'm not sure how high up people place going for a number two, but I can assure you that I'm not alone in my love of the sacred dump. Many many people indulge in the epiphany shite. I've even got my favourite toilet in work! Third one along. It's got a smoke alarm above it too so no risk of second hand smoke!

So the perfect job is apparent. It's not the one that makes you feel fuzziest. It's not the one that pays the most. It's the one that doesn't time you when you go for a shite!

Thursday, 8 January 2009


(Blog wrote on 26th April 2007)

Whoever invented alchohol is a cheeky cheeky bugger! Putting something so beautifully hilarious in the same bottle as a bint of a head the next day! The origin of the English word "hangover" is unclear, but some suggest that it simply describes the position of the sufferer the morning after a night of alcoholic excess, their head "hanging over" the toilet bowl. Wherever it comes from, it tastes like lastnight!

The new beer fridge in my room has proved to be a blinder upto now, supplying me with a variety of colder than usual beverages at hand! So this morning, the best thing ever happened! My bottle of water had half frozen and I had a freezing cold hangover fighter! Bonus!

So I lay there, pondering the night before! The events that contributed to my sore head! There was the Chelsea game, a 1-0 defeat which will be turned over by the redmen at home! I'm confident of that! Then there was the bottles of Bud in our pub! They possibly helped the head-ache happen!

Then there was the Cava and Popworld! There were shots and beer involved in both, but only dancing in Popworld! Probably the funniest dancing I've ever seen, from Lee Mc - or Ace Ventura to us! Gaying it up has gone to new levels! In saying that I think he went home with someone so I'm not arguing against his methods either!

After there, we ended up going the Mood, as Medication had finished for the night! I found a boss green hat which you'll see on my pictures somewhere! And as there was a lack of cloakroom in the Mood, I saw someone from school behind the bar and she said leave my jumper behind these signs on the bar! A little bit wearliy I did so, and I still have it now so I was wrong to think someone would have it off!

From there it was to a different chicken gaff which doesn't have the credentials of Hardman Pizza, the genuine Chicken Gaff! As I think it was that chicken burger and chips that caused my hangover! It's easy to point the finger isn't it? Thank you all for a boss night anyways, and say no to big men with massive, massive heads in the toilet who offer you drug dealers phone numbers! Or they'll drag you through the shit!

Thursday, 1 January 2009

My Latest Office

Hello there!

I just thought I'd pop a quick word in here before I start shifting all my shite from my previous blog page.

I'd better start by introducing myself. I'm Joey Burns. I'm from Liverpool and have lived in Walton my entire life. I have a couple of loves in my life. And before you assume that I'm a Mormon with 8 wives, I shall dispel your thinking by letting you know that one is my gorgeous girlfriend Hannah. In her I feel I've met one of my best mates and my match at the same time! Then there is Liverpool Football Club. I've worshipped this team from day one and shall continue to do so until the day that I die. There's also my music. I started learning guitar at the tender age of 18 and I've proudly stuck to it. To this day, I can configure chords and actually play stuff which makes reasonable sense. That in itself is a massive victory for me, as when I started I felt hopeless and absolutely shite if I'm going to be honest. I'm also a car bore. I know too much about cars, but I don't care, as I love them. I'm possibly the most unlucky car bore in the world however, as my potential car insurance costs 5 times as much as my car would be. Bugger!

As for my track record, I was previously writing blogs on my personal MySpace page but felt that it was getting a little old fashioned and limited if I wanted someone to read it. Basically, it ended up being like writing an article on a typewriter. Which you then could only show people who were in the 'MySpace room' as it may seem. So limiting it to friends and MySpace enthusiasts, I decided enough was enough on that front.

As a result of the limitations, I've given my writing a wide berth for a bit and over the New Year I've thought about what I want to do. Which was write a bit more! Call it a New Year's resolution. So I've set up this Blogspot, which feels a bit more professional already. Any blog experts, please do not judge me. I started on a MySpace typewriter!

So in the coming weeks, I'll be throwing some former articles which I like from my previous page. I hope you like them. If you've read them already, congratulations on finding my previous page. It was hard enough for me to locate it!

So welcome to the new office. Same as the old office. But, better?

P.S. Don't be expecting too much intellect and deep thinking from my page. The majority, as I have come to discover, is just me chatting shit!