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.

Holidays

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.

Facebook

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.

Diets

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.

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.

Seamines

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.

Redundancy

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!

Racists

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.

Asassination

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.

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....

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?