Why don't they do something about all the facking boneheads out there. I mean, you have to put up with a load of bollix from Johnney Government and the bleedin law and yet there's brainless tossers out there walking around like facking nomads doing whatever they like. If you ask for my humble opinion I think they all need a slap. Today I was half way down me street, just past old Pettle's bash whan I saw me mate's son, Bri, parking his nice little motor up on the pavement all tidy and out of harm's way. The next facking moment there's some tosser in a peaked cap writing up a ticket for him. "what's this then?" I says to the shiney peak. I could just about understand the cant's english when he turns to me and says, "I'll tell you what this is mate; this is none of your business, that's what it is". Well fack me, there's me looking out for me mate's nipper and some prat with the interpersonal skills of a dog plop tells me it's none of my business. "Let me ask you a question piss breath" I sais to him "Do you think that fackin ticket book of yours might fit sideways up your bosh shute?" .. Well, stroll on if the tosser doesn't press some button on his fackin radio and the next thing I hear is the whole local constabulary singing frerear-fackin-Jacqua from halfway across town while they hurry to the shiney peak's assistance! I hadn't even given the cant a little push or nothing and there he is wasting police time pressing his panic button .. what a bonehead, couldn't even engage in a civilized conversation with a local resident. Anyway, discretion being the better part of valor and all that twabble, I turned and legged it into Mr Pettle's shop and out the back .. poor old Mrs Pettle's in there stirring the curry .. "You again" she yells at me, "Sorry darling" I sais as I unlock the kitchin door to head down the yard and over the back wall, "I'll tell them who you are if they ask me" she's givin off to me and waving a wooden spoon in the air, "Naa, you wouldn't do that to a fellow neighbour would you Mrs Pettle?", "Patel, Patel" she yells back at me .. well how would I know the fackin difference it's all the same to me. Anyway, god bless her, no further comeback and I'm sure the shiney peak looked a right bonehead when the boys in blue showed up ready for some heroics to find the little prat standing on his own with his ticket book still in his hands. Don't these bastards waste a lot of ourvaluable time .. I don't know.

Stroll-on, I don't facking believe it! So, I go down to Mr Pettle's corner shop for some burn and who should I see there ... me gran .. and whose she blabbin with, some facking bosh basher from the TV! Now, this basher is, like, famous .. you see him on the box most every day, what a prat. So, he's doing all this wiggle, facking grannies love me bit. Even old Mr Pettle and his missis are there chattering away and facking giggling like chipmunks. This prat's more like a bird than a bird if you know what I mean with all that face pulling and wrist action, what a load of bollix. So, as I walk in I says "so what's going on here then?". Well, me gran flies at me like a cricket ball with "oooh and aaah and look whose here" and all that twaddle. I eyeball the bosh basher whose all smiles and waves, "Hi" he says. Well, wot am I spozed to do, facking wave back? "whose this prat then?" I says, pretending I don't recognize him like. "Oh this is ..(what's his name).." says old Pettle. "bollix" I says and go to get me burn. "Oh no" says Mrs Pettle, "you must have seen him on the TV, he is very funny and so charming in real life". "Real life?" says I, "he's about as real as a winning on the facking lottery". Well, the bosh basher starts getting ready to leave and, guess what .. his fackin Bently rolls round to the front of old Pettle's shop, in he gets and he's off without as much as "by your leave". Old Pettle was a bit pissed off and Mrs Pettle went back inside to make the curry saying I was "a very rude man sometimes". But I ask you, why do we have to put up with all this facking patronising bollix from these twats who we pay for in our TV licences .. that's why I don't pay mine .. burp? Gran had no idea what was going on as she had four scratch cards to scratch so no bother. Anyway, back home then for more grief from the missis God love her .. I don't facking know.

Sod whot the facking doctor said, I'm out of bleeding fags again. Got to go down and pay Mr Pettle a good day and get some more burn for the evening .. the missis said I'm an adict and I should give up; "wot you gonna give up?" I sais "facking Rabbiting?" .. Oh, excuse my rudeness, I haven't introduced me darling misses to ya .. Lizzie we call her after the good lady her self (that's the bleeding queen to all you ignorant foreigners who wouldn't know betta). She got fat since the nipper came along; me dad says she's like a good quality tourist coach. I says I hope all those bleeding foreigners arent riding her like a coach, slapper. Anyway, have to sod off to the Mr Pettle's corner shop now so sod ya. 

Recession? What a load of twoddle! The difference between between boom and recession is this: when we are in a boom we are pissed off with all the rich cants for having all our money and in a recession we are pissed off with all the rich cants because they have spent all our money. Stroll-on Jonney you are bollixed which ever way you look at it so stop worrying. Now, if you want to understand business, start with your own relationship down at the social: do you get what you are entitled to and a little bit more .. well, there it is. Robin fackin Hood  had the right attitude, steal from the rich and shag the aristocrocy (in his case Maid Marrian), the rest is bollix. Of course, apologies to Her darling Majesty herself, who I happen to know reads this blog as she is a straight-up aristocrat .. not so sure about all the other prats but I'm open to convincing. Anyway, I'm board with all that dog plop so I'm off.

Mate, there's a bleeding spell check on this thing I hear you say. Well bolix, it's sodding American and they can't even spell cant. I mean, what's the fackin use of having a spell checker if the pratt can't spell in Her darling Majesty's mother tongue. Stroll on .. burp .. more blady foreigners tellin us what to say; I ask you. Credit where it's due though .. the bloke's blady fast!

Anyway, down in me local some pissed Johnney was rabbiting on about blogs. "Blogs?" I said to him, "aint those wooden shoes that Norwegian nurds wear stomping up and down dykes and bosh bashers wear them to go and drink pink cocktails?". "Naa" he says "that's clogs you prat, I'm talking about blogs". "Oh yeah, I says, "blogs, like block heads right?". He says, "What you talking block heads for mate, I said blogs". So, I gave him a block head just to remind him of his manners and explained that educating other people was a privelage not a bleedin chore.

Well, it was either another quiet evening with the local constabulary or buy the pratt a pint to calm him down. So I bought him a pint and it was then that my educated pratty friend told me all about bloggin. Of course, as a educated and opinionated cant meself, I got straight onto the case ... and hey presto, here I am you lucky bastards!