Jokes over, release the damn Summer

Curse this grey shitty weather.

I’m still waiting for Summer to kick in, we’re past the first two weeks of June for fuck’s sake.

I suffered the Winter. I want some blue skies. I feel cheated. Cheated by God. (Not the first time I’ve been cheated by God. I asked to be blessed with a foot long penis, and I’ve only got a paltry ten inches. That stingy bastard).

I don’t mean gorgeous weather from Monday to Friday. Fuck, I’m so miserable during the working week I wouldn’t notice if it was raining dead babies let alone rays of Sunshine. Nah, I mean the weekends. I want a few sunny weekends. Everybody is happier, more alive on a nice warm weekend.

I remember sitting in Clapham Common this time last year (when the weather was a damn sight better than it is now) having a few beers, when a bunch of guys carried a Pool Table from their house all the way down into the park. Plus a couple of Rocking Chairs, which they sat in sipping beers while their mates played pool. Fuck those guys were cool. If I had a daughter, I’d want her to marry a guy like that.

But I don’t have any daughters, only a son. Little Beef Jr.

And I really should stop dressing him up as Parappa the Rapper before sending him off to School, as apparently the other kids have started making fun of him.

But I just can’t resist.

Other People's Snaps

Time for some random photos. Only this time they are not from my camera, but ones that have been emailed to me over the last few weeks from various felons.

A photo Campbell sent me. I had to rotate the picture so it would fit onscreen, but it seems more appropriate like this anyway. It’s from Stewie’s Stag night, and like some perverse take on the Dhali Lama ritual, they’ve put the Groom-to-be in an ornate wooden chair and laid it in the middle of the road. Only now is he free to check his text messages.


Muel also sent me this Polaroid of Aspin shaking hands with Ricky Ponting in a Bargain Price Supermarket (click to enlarge). If you're reading Aspin, explain the photo in the comments section. Coz it's random.

Also from Muel: "This is a pic of me and my Bali brother on my initial 3 month Asian trek on an island in Indo. It captures a beautiful moment, a deft mix of pain and pleasure."

There is such a fine line between pleasure and pain. I can't see the lower halves of their bodies, so I can’t tell if they are getting blown by whores, and mauled by sharks.

Here's a historic photo from Mac: it's my first day in London, April 2004. Left to right: Bell, Chuck, myself, Campbell, Mac, Jodie. Muel is the guy having some form of palsy fit across our laps. I had been living in London for only five hours when this photo was taken. Five kilos lighter, a mild sun tan and – holy shit- I’m even smiling. I barely recognise myself in this picture.

I’ve now been in London for over 38 months. Here’s a more recent photo:



Speaking of Mug-Shots, here’s an email from Magic: "Trying to give myself a haircut when the old clippers broke down mid-cut. The fashion police took me away for a photo session at Sunhill." (click to enlarge).


And finally, another photo from Mac. It’s Muel and myself in my Adelaide Flat, circa 1999. I’m wearing Rabbit ears and a Feather Boa, and Muel is dressed in a shirt, tie, Taekwondo helmet – and he’s also sticking a gun in my face. Dear God, what can any of this possibly mean? I honestly can’t tell you, because I do not remember this photo at all. I don’t remember kissing that squid in the earlier post, and I don’t recall, well, whatever the hell is happening in the photo above.

What was it about the 1990s? Why am I blocking most of that decade from my memory?

Review: To Kako ("Evil")

I’m probably not the best person to be reviewing this film. I sat in my lounge room Monday with my laptop furiously writing updates while the movie was playing, so I didn’t really give it my undivided attention. Not that a low budget Zombie flick needs Quantum Amounts of concentration. Fuck it, I seriously doubt any of you will see the film anyway, so here’s my two bits. (Side Note: Working on a laptop in the dark, while simultaneously watching a Horror film on TV, left my eyeballs feeling like my liver - Fucked).

It seems to be a new tradition of mine – finishing up a long weekend with a gory blood-letting film on the Monday night. Last Bank Holiday it was 300. This time round it was the Horror film To Kako (translates to "Evil"), just recently released on DVD. Stranger and I had just joined the Clapham Junction Blockbuster, unfortunately the holiday weekend had wiped out their selection of decent DVDs. That’s when we stumbled across this little bastard and decided to hire it for two reasons:

1. The Cover

It’s generally not wise to hire DVDs solely by their cover design, but we couldn’t resist with this one. Click to enlarge and check it out. It looks like something an angry teenager would stick to his bedroom wall back in 1986. (The film also feels like it was made by angry teenagers. Back in 1986).

2. The film is a Zombie Movie from Greece. In fact, the film is the first and only Zombie film from Greece.

A Zombie Splatter film from Greece intrigued us. Would somebody get decapitated with a Yiros? (Sadly, the answer is no). We decided to give it whirl.


The general gist of the story, is that two miners are deep in a cave and get infected with a virus that turns them into infectious maddened zombies. (What caused the infection? Dunno, wasn’t concentrating. Let’s say a sick bat). They then go around the city of Athens biting and infecting helpless citizens, who then themselves turn into Cannibalistic feral zombies. Yada, yada you know the story.

The Director had a great idea with the cast here – if you have crappy inexperienced actors, then make the characters as complacent as possible. One of the Protagonists is a dozy Cab Driver, who has to be the most laid back character I’ve ever seen in a Horror film. When the Zombie Holocaust first breaks out and the city turns into a War Zone, his first plan of action is to take a nap on the bonnet of his car. In fact, he ends up spending most of the film quietly dozing. Even when this narcolepsy is broken by frequent “Zombie Blow Job Nightmares” later in the film.

I was surprised how long the Cabbie managed to survive in the film, considering the movie didn’t opt for the traditional shambling Romero Zombies. They were more the Olympic Sprinter types like in 28 Days Later and the Dawn of the Dead remake. Fuck the living dead can leg it when they want to.

There were other character types vying for survival, all introduced in excessively long and boring expositional scenes I wasn’t paying attention to. Fuck em, most of them got eaten.

But Splatter films are like Porn, you’re not in it for the acting. And To Kako has some decent gore scenes to entertain. I’ll say this about Greek Zombies, they sure have some soft bodies. The Survivors rip arms, legs, torsos apart with ease. Heads get gouged, torn off, and split into two. The Heroes tear apart Zombie after Zombie, getting coated in blood and guts in the process…and seem to be laughing and smiling the whole time. And gosh, why wouldn’t you be. It’s been a while since I saw somebody get strangled with their own disembowelled guts.

Nothing else to really add as it was the same as the last twenty Living dead films I’ve seen, and as far as low budget shitty Zombie films, this one was not bad.

The first Greek Zombie Splatter film. Historic, if nothing else.

The Homeless: 1 Me: 0

Just quietly, there’s a shit load of homeless people in London. Seems like you can’t walk more than three blocks without getting pestered by some wild eyed lunatic.

And there are hot-spots where there is always, without fail, at least one homeless person begging. One such point is between the two ATMs next to the Alexandra Pub on Clapham High Street.

Some times it’s this dude with this weird growth on his face, other times it’s a guy handing out poetry for money, and there’s this friendly old dude who sits there with a dog in his lap.

The other night I was getting some cash out from one of these very ATMs, and there was a 20 year old chick begging in front of them. I’ve always considered an ATM an odd place to beg in front of. Yes people are getting money out, but it’s not like the machine dispenses your withdrawal in "spare change" – and I’ve never been so hammered that I wanted to hand over a twenty pound note to a complete stranger.

This particular begat told me she had a copy of The Big Issue to sell.

For those who don’t know, "The Big Issue". is a magazine sold by Homeless people so that they can raise money for food and shelter. I think the magazine is in international syndication, as I faintly remember smelly vagrants trying to offload copies on me back in Rundle Mall. I’ve never had the pleasure of reading this publication, so I fished a few coins out of my pocket and offered to buy it off her. She handed me a rolled up magazine and the transaction was complete.

A few blocks later I sat down at the Bus Stop and unrolled my magazine to give it a read. There was one problem though. It wasn’t a copy of The Big Issue. It was a Junk Mail brochure for Sainsbury’s Supermarkets.

I’d just been grifted by a fucking Hobo.

In hindsight I can’t say that I feel that disappointed. What would a magazine sold by Homeless people consist of anyway? Cooking tips on how best to prepare Squirrel? Home renovation tips – should you go for Duct tape or string to fix that leaking Cardboard Box? And is the Centrefold this issue’s "Crack Whore of the Week"?

Fuck, now that I mention it, that sounds like a damn good read.

I’ll try to buy another copy tonight.

*SIDE NOTE: In case there are any Hippies who've been upset by this article, I'll have you know I've given tonnes of money to homeless people since I've been in London.





Got some decent blow jobs too.

And then a Euro comes along

The qualification rounds were in full swing last night for the 2008 Euro Cup. David Beckham returned to the England team to help them with a convincing 3 nil win over Estonia.

The Euro Cup is an international playing field of superb quality, featuring many of the world’s most vitally important countries. Here are some more scores from last night, and by god would you look at those match ups. Global Juggernauts going toe to toe, I wish I had been there to see it:


Kazakhstan 1
Azerbaijan 1


Romania 2
Slovenia 0


Bosnia-Herzegovina 1
Malta 0


Luxembourg 0
Albania 3


Bulagaria 2
Belarus 1

Neck Up - Radio DJs

Fuck, haven’t had a Neck Up Award for a while. Well overdue. Anyway…

I read the following article in the Metro a few days ago (a few days ago meaning June the 4th. Yes, I’m still back-peddling for "May-hem"):

An actor whose genitals were injured by a mousetrap is suing Jackass star Johnny Knoxville and a radio talk-show for $12.6 million.

Perry Caravello alleges that Knoxville, program host Jimmy Kimmel and radio personality Adam Corolla, promised him $12 million for promotion of a movie if he carried out a stunt that involved putting his genitals in a mousetrap.

But the stunt went wrong and Caravello "was severely injured when the trap literally went on his manhood", according to papers filed in the Los Angeles Superior Court.

There is something I find confounding about this story, and it is something I have always found baffling about these scenarios.

No, it’s not the "penis in the mouse-trap" act. Go for a cruise through You-Tube and you’ll find far sinister pranks than that one.

It’s not even the ridiculous figure this dick head thought he was going to get paid for doing the stupid trick. $12 million, that’s more than the second Jackass movie’s entire budget for fuck’s sake.

Nah, it’s the choice of Arena for this whole caper – a radio-talk show.
It’s a staple of the new "Cutting Edge" Shock Jocks – having all kinds of wacky and colourful antics usually reserved for television on their shows. Getting people in to eat dog food, blind-folded to grope strange objects and other visceral fun. Howard Stern is the worst offender of this mentality, having a constant string of Porn Stars and models come on to his show for crazy and obscene "entertainment". At the end of the day, it begs just one simple question:

WHAT IS THE POINT OF VISUAL GAGS ON A RADIO SHOW?

I know radio DJ’s get bored with their traffic updates, call-ins from bored housewives, and having to play that new Match Box 20 song for the tenth time today – but what possible function could visual comedy serve on a medium which consists solely of sound waves ?

"Hi welcome to Rob and Andy’s Drive Home Show on KRAKFM. If you’re just tuning in, we’ve got a young man in the studio who has to eat a bowl of mucous to win $500! Also there’s two naked lesbians kissing passionately in the corner! And just five minutes ago, Rob’s dead Grandma crawled into the studio and took a shit in the CD player!"

Yeah whatever, Assholes.

Neck up.

Fuck Spring

In the last post I complained about the saturation of sunlight, and now I’m going to complain about the lack of it. Flippant contradiction makes for some fun reading, And there’s just nothing sexier than a Bi-polar blogger.

I repeatedly say that there’s no point complaining about the London climate, but the current Weather is pissing me off. Apart from a Blue Sky here and there, it’s been nothing but grey skies and drizzle for about a month now. It wouldn’t matter so much, except that this is the last month of Spring, we are a week off Summer, and the weather is SHIT. I dragged myself bloodied and bruised through a depressing Winter, limped out the other end scarred yet optimistic in March, and this was my reward.

A miserable Spring.

We should be experiencing blissful warm sunny days, and instead the streets of London are wetter than Aquaman’s undies. Fuck I hope some improvements are on the way. But for all my complaining, there are worse climates in this part of Europe. I hear Scotland get’s some pretty god awful weather (never been there myself). And I know from firsthand experience that Ireland can face God’s Wrath too.

I was in Dublin about this time last year, and boy did they put on some shitty weather for the Saint Patrick’s festivities. At one point I ventured out to do the only bit of sight-seeing on my list (The Guiness Factory Tour). I was in the line up for about an hour, as it rained, hailed, and snowed all at the same time (which I didn’t even think was meteorologically possible). It was a Sideways gale onslaught that relentlessly pelted myself, and the several hundred overweight Americans who formed the rest of the queue.

After about another ten minutes I loudly declared "Fuck Thi" but couldn’t finish the sentence because my mouth filled up with snow. I decided to give the whole tourist thing a miss, and instead holed up in a bar for six days, leering at women with my drinking partner "Mikey".


True story.

Solar Eclipse of the Heart

One thing that perplexes me about the housing in this city is the fucking curtains. I’ve lived in four London apartments now, and everyone of them has had shitty curtains in the bedrooms.

Don’t get me wrong, they’ve always looked decent. It’s the choice of cloth that pisses me off. Paper thin, and always in some kind of pale blue or light yellow anaemic colour. Great fabric for making a Summer Frock, not so great when you want to block those pesky sun rays from entering your room.

The United Kingdom is pretty high up North on the Planet, which makes for some long Winter nights, and, conversely, long Summer Days. The Sun rises pretty fucking early in Summer (which starts in the Northern Hemisphere in a few days), and my sorrowful eyelids rise with it, as the menacing UV rays penetrate my translucent foetus curtains and bash my tired face.

Who chooses the curtains for these houses? Why would they think that I would want to rise at 4:30-fucking-am every day? To milk the Cows and feed the Chickens?

Bah.

What I ended up doing at my old Battersea home, was sticking Al-foil to the inside of my window. Sweet darkness. It’s a trick I learnt from Bill Hicks, who did the same to his household windows so that he and his stand-up comedian buddies could stay up all night snorting coke and writing routines, without the rude intrusion of Sunlight.

Hey Sun? You cause Cancer, and you kill Gremlins, and you wake me up too early in the mornings.

Fuck off.

Slack

I’ve been getting a tonne of angry emails recently, seems a lot of you are pissed off about the post frequency (or lack thereof) on the Shoddy Blog. I could write an entire post about sticking my dick in a washing-machine full of dead panda cubs and not hear a peep out of anybody, but miss a few post up-dates and suddenly everybody is offended.

I’ve just finished five posts tonight trying to catch up (I’m still a week behind, but It’s looking better than the initial 12 day gap).

I’ve got a dozen reasons why I couldn’t update this blog on time. I can’t be fucked explaining them all, but I do know they can all be qualified with this one statement:

I’ve never been so Goddamn busy in my entire life.

The reason I started this May-hem trip was as a stress release exercise. Forcing myself to find the time to write an update each day was a great creative outlet, and I recommend anybody who owns a site like this to give it a try. As soon as each finished post hits the web, you have 24 hours to come up with a new one. It’s great for taking your mind off problems, charging up the inventive parts of your mind which can sometimes become a touch dormant during the everyday grind of modern day life.

There is an annual tradition in the blog-world known as Blogtober (it rhymes with October Lolz!!1!), where bloggers are encouraged to write a post each and every day. It is intended to "harness your inner-crtic", though I don’t think this really applies to me, when it seems that my inner-critic is a depraved lunatic.

The problem herein, is that the Bloggers end up posting a bunch of meaningless guff in order to keep up with the sheer volume of updates required. Something along the lines of:

"I need to write a post today, but can’t think of anything, so I’m just going to list everything in my fridge:

Low Fat Milk
Butter
2 sticks of Celery"

Blah, blah – you get the point. Sadly, this redundant information is usually followed up by a bunch of equally redundant comments.

Miss Peipei says: "Omg! I drink low fat milk too! Lolz!!1! :)"

Cyberspace seems to be jam-packed full of meaningless conversation. I could have written a throwaway post each day, but didn’t want to. I like each article to have it’s own point and function (even if that point seems to be a bunch of dick jokes). And besides, there is a whole bunch of half-finished articles I’m trying to clear out of my Drafts folder.

And finally, here’s the Shit-and-Giggles loop-hole in this whole transaction: I said I would write a post for each day in May….but I never said when those posts would appear. So in theory I could write the May 23rd post in a week, the one for the 30th a year from now – and still be in the parameters of my initial intentions.

Or, I could try and finish all 31 post by midnight May 31st London time.

Fuck it, let’s see how I go.

The St Pat's Post

So as I outlined in the last post, I was a little Green under the gills on Saint Patrick’s Day. I arrived at the pub two hours late nursing a coffee, while my nauseas stomach and aching brain competed for the title of "most painful bodily organ". I was treated to the obligatory "Hero’s Welcome" when I entered the Bar, the Salutations traditionally reserved for only two kinds of people – returning War Veterans, and people who are the last to arrive at a party where everybody else is drunk and affectionate.

Usually it’s a good feeling when everybody is so drunkenly pleased to see you, but in this situation with my crippling hang-over I found the large group of people calling my name and all the hugging and kissing on the cheek a little unnerving. I ended up sitting outside on a bench in the cold for a good ten minutes before joining the festivities again. It turned out to be a great night of drinking, here are a few photos.

Helen sorta looks like Salma Hayek, and is also skilled at balancing random stuff on her head.


There is a high wall that separates a bad hangover from a good Beer Buzz, and it’s certainly not an easy one to climb. I’m celebrating the successful transition by lighting a cigarette off a bar candle. I have no idea whose sunglasses they are, but they were vital to stop my throbbing eye-balls from falling out of my skull.


At some point in the night a team of guys were celebrating a Championship win and were letting us drink Champagne out of the Award Cup. This guy was part of our party, but I don’t remember his name. He looks like the lead singer of "The Darkness", so let’s call him "Justin".


It was Will’s birthday, so he got to take the first drink.


We didn’t know the name of the team or which league they were playing in. Fuck, we didn’t even know which sport they were playing. But it didn’t matter, we could still taste the victory.

The Cuban Bar was followed by Hydro Bar, which in turn was followe by the Clapham Grand. The photo above is from the Grand. The shot makes it look like some kind of modern classy Night Club. Trust me, it's not.


Kate, Rusty, Helen, Will. All students in the Shaolin School of Photo Posing.


The Sunday after. Jonno, Toby, Jono, Yatesy. Celebrating the end of yet another London weekend with beers at the Clapham North pub.

The Pre Saint Pat's Post

Going to post a few photos from Saint Patrick’s Day, realised that the night before could do with it's own post.

So anyway, I stumbled into Saint Patrick’s Day with a stinking foul hangover (and boy, I really need to stop opening my anecdotes like that), the pub of choice being a Cuban Bar in Clapham Junction.

Before you whine at me "What the fuck? A Cuban Bar on Saint Patrick’s Day? Not very Irish of you!", I would like you to take note that I spent last year’s Saint Pat’s in the Lion’s Jaw itself – Dublin. That was part of a five day trip that just plain throttled the living shit out of me, and deserves it’s own post maybe sometime in the future (but probably not). Also, I didn’t choose the fucking bar, somebody else did.

The reason I was so hung-over, was because of a Going Away party we had for Greeny (a work-mate) at a pub the night before. Greeny didn’t even show at his own party because he was too hung-over from the night before that one. What can I say, it’s fucking London. It didn’t stop the rest of us (about a dozen workers) from hitting the Booze with heated passion, and halfway through the night we started playing the drinking game “I never”.

If you’re not familiar with the game, the rules are quite simple. Somebody loudly declares an act that they have “never” performed (for instance, “I’ve never had a threesome”) then anybody partaking in the game who is guilty of the statement (those that have had a threesome) must have a drink.

It’s a game of honesty, and of course the more un-ethical the participants, the more fun it is to play.

However, there’s only so long you can play before you run out of normal statements, and the activities quoted become increasingly more obscene and surreal.

So we started with the mildly racey:

"I’ve never had sex in a public place."

After half an hour moved on to statements such as:

"I’ve never rung a door-bell with my erect penis because both of my arms were hand-cuffed behind my back."

And by the end of the night:

"I’ve never received hate mail from Green Peace for filming porn movies inside the carcass of a beached Whale."

Come closing time at 11pm we were all shit-carted and didn’t need another drink. So naturally a few of us went to a Night Club and drank Cocktails until 3am. I woke up at about 4pm the next day, face down on my bed fully dressed with the light on. I had no idea how I had gotten home, but I did know that the slightest movement made me feel like vomiting. So I lay like that for a further three hours before heading off for the Saint Pat’s celebrations.

I hope you have enjoyed this random anecdote kids. And as a quick side note, this is the 100th post on the Shoddy Blog. Far out.

My Breakfast with Santa

I was going through the sordid mess that is my Pictures Folder, and stumbled across this collection of screen captures from late November last year. I was going to delete them, but then thought "Fuck it, I'm about nine posts behind" and threw them on to May-hem.

For a while during the festive season, there was a web-site called "Santabot.com" that ran a comment generator that gave the impression one could chat with Santa Claus online. This meant kids all over the world could chat with Father Christmas and request their presents. It also meant that Adults with bad hangovers and filthy foul moods could verbally abuse Saint Nick with random stupidity, It then do screen captures and email it to their work-mates who share the same juvenile sense of humour.

Here is a sample of my disturbing online conversation with a beloved Children’s Holiday Icon, and further proof I should not be allowed within fifty metres of a computer. I’m going to store them in my "What the Hell is wrong with me?" folder, click to enlarge the shots.

New Crib

Guess what kids, I’ve got a new house!

I no longer have to dish out blumpys to Sailors in back-alleys, because I now have a roof over my head. The offer we made on a house in Clapham Junction fell through. But a second offer, for another place in Clapham Junction, was successful. The Landlady took one look at Ben and myself, realised we were a couple of clean living Gentlemen, and took us on as tenants.

And thank god too, because if I slept on one more couch my spine would have crumpled and my body would have folded into two. Of course, if that had happened, I could be giving myself a blumpy right now. Oh well.

The new place is a two bedroom apartment on Lavender Hill, only two blocks from Clapham Junction Station. Though a touch noisy being right on a busy street, it’s as close as possible I can get to my Train-line without moving to Richmond, Twickenham or (shudder) Feltham itself. I couldn’t ask for a better location.

I’m into my 38th month of this London Adventure, and suffice to say I’m a little “tired” of peak-hour public transport.

This new location means I have shaved about 25 minutes and one whole train off my testicle-rupturing journey to and from work. It’s still a pain getting there, but more of a dull throb.

No longer the agony equivalent of getting a Chinese burn on my penis from a full grown Orangatang.

As a side note: I received a cheque in the mail, which was the bond money for my last place. The landlord took out £26 for steam-cleaning...and gave me the rest of the deposit back. One of the very rare occurrences where I haven't been fucked over since living in this city.

Randompalooza

Some more photos to clear out of my digital camera, and boy do I take photos of completely random fucking things. I'm like the Peter Parker of retarded.

Christmas Eve in Wimbledon, and my what festive decorations outside the local Blockbuster. Ya gotta love Rubbish night in London. Bag up your refuse, tie a knot at the top, and just launch the fucking things out on the street.


I asked a local what this street sign meant whilst in Amsterdam. Apparently if you drive into the city with a Truck or Bus full of ugly chicks, you are promptly asked to turn around and leave.


I had heard of this, and I was so looking forward to visiting this night club in Amsterdam. Imagine my disappointment when I found out that "Slag Room" was in fact a brand of Cream.


Balham McDonald's, 2am some random morn. Lucky I'm not a fussy diner when I'm pissed as a fart, because this looks like fucking shit. Interesting Fact: I spent five weeks in China in 2002, and ate all manner of random bizarre foods. I caught food posioning once while there - from eating a bad Big Mac. Fucking wankers.


I was wondering why the Pork products tasted so tender in Antwerp, this screen sign at a Butcher's had the answer: The Farmer's Wife, and her Strap-on Dildo.

Muel is teh 30z

Happy Birthday to Muel (aka Fuller) who turns 30 today. I don't have a photo of him on this laptop, so this is the best I could come up with:

Mule currently resides in Jakarta with his older sister, and I rang him up just before to send my Best Wishes. It was midnight in Jakarta, and the conversation was completely discombobulating. The best I could make out he was at his party in the middle of the city. I could hear music, women screaming, guns going off, dogs barking, Angels crying and at least three Endangered Species getting Slaughtered.

The phone was passed around to a series of increasingly incomprehensible people, and at one point I swear I was talking to Satan himself.

The phone-call ended with Kate (Fuller or Holden, couldn't tell) squealing "Beeeeef" into the phone with such a high frequency I am now deaf in one ear.

Happy Birthday Muel. Also, Happy Birthday to Will for Monday just gone.

You are both now closer to 40 than 20. Amusing.

Demons and Bulldozers

From the Photo Back-logs:

Wandsworth Demons vs Landskrona Bulldozers
Clapham Common
March 31st

Beautiful day for Footy, and the Common was back to it's lush old green self now the water ban had been lifted. Too bad it was windy as a Slut-pig, which sometimes happens in London.

Whomever organised the beer for the day provided Ice buckets full of Boags. Fucking genius.

Australian Rules' most hideous guernsey, in all it's techni-colour glory. This dude looks like he's about to pick his nose in front of everybody. But when your wearing these colours, you can do whatever the fuck you want.

The back of the Landskrona Guernsey. Orange never looked so good.

This guy played the entire match in a black tracksuit and beanie. Glasso summed him up best:

"He looks like he's legging it through the park with a stolen VCR under his arm".

Macca brought this sports drink to the pub. If you went to the toilet, somebody would pour a bit of this in your beer while you were gone. Even my Guiness got "Napalmed".

Half Naked Viking antics. Most of the Landskrona dudes looked like they should be playing Guitar for the Queens of the Stone Age. I was speaking to a few Swedish guys in the toilets (ya know, as you do) and they weren't too happy with the team colours. They shedded them at the first available oppurtunity.

On the left is "Benny", on the right is "The Fox". In the middle is "Lemonade", and it is from him that I was first introduced to the Demons back in 2004. I've seen him play a few good matches over the years, I've also seen him get stripped naked by an Estonian Stripper and lead around the stage on a Dog leash. I met him through Chuck, so enough said.

Some Swede and Macca. One last beer, then on to the raping and pillaging.

Much later in the night I was at an 80's party in North London. As seen on this guy, you just can't escape the Landskrona Colours.

Mother Nature took a dump

Enough Maritime Molestation, it’s time to inject some beauty back into the Shoddy Blog care of my Winter Wonderland photos. We were blessed with Mother Nature’s gift of Snowflake magic for a couple of days during London’s Winter (there were literally only two days of Snow. Conversely there were three days of Snow during Spring – guh). Here are a handful of shots.

And by "handful of shots" I don’t mean when you jerk off in your hand and then "Spiderman" your lover in the face. I mean Photos.


Outside my Balham Flat, my Communal back yard was covered in Snow. Green one minute, coated in white powder in next – not unlike the inside of Kate Moss’ nose.


The view from my front door. Sure the snow makes the street look pretty. It also make it slippery as fuck. Walking down the street was more awkward than a boner at a funeral.



Out on Ritherdon Road. Panic Merchants that the British Press are, front pages were declaring a blizzard was on it's way, and that the city would be brought to a stand still. "Seven Inch Snow Dump" screamed the headlines, as it turned out it was more like two.

Promising seven inches and then delivering two, just like a Japanese Porn Star.



Near my office. Just goes to show you the magical properties of Mother Nature, when even a Shit-Hole like Feltham can look nice.