Wednesday, 8 July 2009


Corking dream last night.

I discovered a 'secret room' in our attic that was full of vintage guitars. I was stood in the room surrounded by these guitars, being soaked by rain that was coming through the ceiling. Whilst all this was going on I was trimming my eyebrows with the type of sanding disc you would attach to a Black & Decker drill. I was horrifed that I had given myself girls eyebrows and then awoke to reality.

What the hell does it mean?

Offending people

As some of you know I have my own radio slot on City Talk every Monday morning. This week I was getting ready to do my spiel about stupid bands that I hate when I commented that the Bronson film is out. Here is an outline of the conversation that took place:

Me: Charlie Bronson's film is out on Monday.
DJ: Yeah.
Me: Wouldn't want to meet that guy in a dark alley. Bloody hell, what a loony! Right nasty piece of work that fella.
DJ: Yeah. I know his family really well. I'm best friends with his mum & brother.
Me: (embarassed) Oh right. Do you do much crime stuff then?
DJ: Did some work for Dave Courtney.
Me: That guy is unhinged. Wouldn't want to get too close to that mentalist.
DJ: Yeah. He's a close friend. We speak regularly.
Me: (even more embarassed) Oh right.

Isn't it great when you put your foot in it. Not only that but if I don't watch out I'll probably end up getting fed into a mulching machine head first by Cockney hard men!

The folly of age

Another phenomenon you can see everywhere in Liverpool:

Old men wearing baseball hats.

When I say 'old men', I don't mean 100 year old grave-dodgers perilously close to death shuffling down the high street at 0.000001mph. What I am actually referring to those late 60s/early 70s grey haired fools you see on the number 10 bus every day. I'm fairly sure these pricks are retired and spend most of their time smoking themselves stupid in horrible boozers on Kensington, but where did the hat thing come from?

They're sure as shit not wearing them to stop the sun getting in their eyes because today the sky was blacker than Mordor. It's not even because their heads get cold (it was bloody warm this afternoon). Have they seen their idiotic, car-stealing sons and thought "I know. I want to be just like him. Instead of enjoying my retirement I shall spend all day in William Hill and cough myself to death from smoking 80 a day."

I don't know. I just don't know.

Wednesday, 1 July 2009

a nostalgic rant

Blah blah blah things were better in the good old days blah blah blah wasn't everything sunnier when we were young......


I used to consider myself a person who didn't dwell on nostalgia but recent events have taught me otherwise. Let's get down to specifics :

Seeing Blur at the MEN Arena made me incredibly happy and also the saddest I've ever been.

Why seeing Blur made me happy:

It proved to me that a band can play together for years, split up, reform and still sound vital.
They played their back catalogue from a time when I was obsessed with British music and felt like I was the only one who cared. I now know I was right to love this music.
They seemed genuinely happy to be on stage together.
For 2 hours I remembered what is was like to be 15.
It served as evidence that my love for Blur isn't just mostalgia but solid evidence that they were and still are an INCREDIBLE BAND.
I get the feeling it was one of those nights I wil remember for the rest of my life. Don't ask me why, I just do.

Why seeing Blur made me sad:

It made me realise that that golden era of British music between 1992 and 1996 could never happen again.
It made me feel old.

I know that the positives by far outweigh the negatives in these 2 lists but let me explain something. When I first started listening to music the first real band I identified with was Blur. Sure, Nirvana were the reason I wanted to be in a band (Kurt had just blown his head off, everytone was listening to Nirvana) but Blur were the first band I identified with.

They were British. They were thoroughly middle class. They were not from a majoy city. They were the same age as my sister.

How could I not like them?

I've always felt that the fact I liked Blur and not Oasis is possibly the definitive metaphor of my life. You could argue that loads of people liked Blur, but NOT IN MY SCHOOL AT THAT TIME. The only other person who was into Blur was my best friend Joe but I didn't know this until we got to know each other years later.

There's something about the Britpop era that makes me want to drink mulled wine and listen to Elgar. I mean, it's not often I get fuzzy-headed and proud of British music but there's something about that era that defines being young to me. I suppose everything looks good in rose-tinted spectacles but fuck it, those were the days.

Staying up late every Friday eating Pot Noodles and watching Paul Weller on Jools Holland because I had no friends. Brilliant.

Monday, 29 June 2009

stupid little shops

Has anyone noticed how Greggs, Sayers etc. struggle to change anything greater than a fiver?

What's wrong with these pricks?

Tuesday, 23 June 2009

an essay on Bronson (the prisoner, not the actor)

For those not in the know, Charles Bronson’s real name (not the actor) is Mickey Peterson. Mickey grew up in Ellesmere Port and quickly gained a reputation as a feared local hooligan, and eventually ended up in borstal. This is where his road to achieving the title of Britain’s longest serving category A prisoner began.
Bronson, is by my reckoning, the most disruptive prisoner ever to have graced the British prison system. By his own calculations he has assaulted over fifty prison guards (not actually that much when you’ve been in prison for nearly forty years, but still impressive) and is Britain’s most prolific hostage-taker. His solution to everything is to take a hostage, even if a) the hostage is in no way linked to his gripe b) it will only make things worse c) he’s too stupid too see it through to any useful conclusion. He once imprisoned four Iraqis single-handedly and would not release them until he was supplied with a machine gun, some iced cream, a cheese sandwich and a helicopter (with pilot). Needless to say his demands were not met and he only ended up with another five years added to his hopelessly long and continually increasing sentence.
His life is littered with acts of complete stupidity, and he is under the impression that his confinement is unjustified. Every time he is released he attempts to rob a bookies or hijack a car, instantly landing him with an automatic ten-stretch upon apprehension by the (now bored) police.
He has tried in vain to demonstrate that he is a changed man. In 2003 he married a Muslim and actually adopted the Muslim faith for a short while, before getting divorced and reverting to a life of self-pity and violent tantrums. He despises fat people, released a book of physical exercises which featured a legal disclaimer advising the reader not to partake in any of the exercises contained within, has broken world records for endurance and tried to establish himself as a boxer despite having a history of violent and unprovoked attacks. And fought a dog to the death. I mean, can a person sink any lower than to fight an animal for money? It shouldn’t happen in this day and age. It’s not possible for things to get that bad. Is it?
The sad thing is that if he ever was to leave the prison system he probably would crumble under the stresses of normal life. He is so woefully out-of-touch with modern conventions that the modern world would almost certainly confuse him. Even the modern prison system confuses him.
He seems to think that he has earned the respect of the crème de la crème of Britain’s criminal elite. He’s always wittering on about how much respect he’s got for the likes of Joe Pyle, Dave Courtney and the remaining Kray and Richardson twins. But in reality they think he is an idiot and don’t understand why/how he’s managed to make himself synonymous with the key players of the golden era of British crime (remember, he’s the epitome of the chronically unsuccessful career criminal). They obviously are slightly fearful of him so tolerate his name-dropping.
I like it when he snaps and goes on a rampage inside whichever prison he is residing at the time. It doesn’t seem to happen any more, but in the mid eighties he went on the warpath seemingly every few weeks. Nobody and nothing is safe when he gets upset, and he gets upset frequently. He is keen on gaining access to the roofs of prisons, where he has been known to stay for up to two weeks living on nothing more than moss, birds eggs and rainwater. The objective of these rooftop protests has yet to be fathomed by the authorities or Bronson himself. There was a good incident in Liverpool prison in which he stripped off, blacked himself up from head to toe with boot polish, donned sunglasses (where did he get them from?) and a prison staff issue hat (worn back-to-front) and stomped round the prison brandishing a home made spear uttering “it’s all over” whilst indiscriminately destroying whatever he came across. He also had a prison governor tethered to his person with a length of rope for the entire duration.

The total cost of his four decade spell in prisons must run into the millions.

Bronson was a real headache for the government for a long time. He was too dangerous to release but kept destroying prisons and staff whilst inside. Because of his unique behaviour and relatively victimless crimes (let’s be frank – taking a hostage isn’t a victimless crime, but he’s never murdered, mugged an old lady or nonced a child) he is seen as a loveable source of amusement to the public. Therefore the government can’t let him rot. All they can do is give him what he wants, within reason, and hope that he behaves himself. Luckily he seems to have kept his nose clean in recent years, although I bet that it is only a matter of time before he takes another hostage.

Watch this space.

Changes to the sport known as boxing

Rule changes I would introduce to the sport known as boxing:

1) A lion in the ring. The lower part of the ropes is fenced off so that the lion cannot escape, and no digs must be thrown at the beast. The lion must NOT be stopped when having a go at the fighters, but MUST be interfered with sexually by the loser. No lion, no fight.

2) Bottomless pits in the ring. The pits extend deep into the core of the Earth.

3) Dog shit in the ring. If a fighter stands (or slips) on a deposit this is as good as suffering a TKO.

4) The entire fight comprises of one ten second round. But it still costs thirty quid to watch it on Sky.

5) High-heels.

6) Every professional fight must be refereed by Flava Flav, the cold lamper. No lamper, no fight.

7) Every third round must be fought wearing a monacle and carrying a cane.

Stuff I would like to do

Things I want to do before I die

1) Drive up an empty car transporter at high speed.

Everyone has drives has been tempted to do this. Occasionally I see empty car transporters parked at the side of the road, I feel they’d make excellent ramps for a high-speed jump.

2) Do a lock-up on a full McDonalds.

Me and Tucker have already locked an entire audience into a cinema screen mid-film, but I want to repeat the stunt on a packed McDonalds. I would be so amazing. Imagine the instant panic.

3) Have a go in a digger.

I’ve heard rumours that a place called Digger World exists where members of the public can pay a fee then rag a digger round a field all day. This is my idea of the perfect afternoon. Just imagine it; being completely untrained and then attempting to pilot something as awesomely destructive and potentially dangerous as a JCB. And it’s legal.

4) Hug a bear.

I don’t care if it’s incredibly dangerous, I want to hug/wrestle a bear (preferably a polar) at some point in my life.

5) Throw a freshly prepared plate of dinner on the floor.

I mean, does anyone else get the urge to do this? Whenever I’m presented with a lovingly prepared meal I get a powerful lust to hurl it away.

6) Fire a machine gun.

Steve Carpenter has fired an AK47, the bastard. I’m jealous. The closest I’ve come is popping a few caps on a 12-bore shotgun. Take it from me, it nearly rips your bloody shoulder off.

7) Wire a plug up wrong.

I’ve heard that it blows the house up.

8) Pour a bottle of wine into an expensive piano.

I got this idea from Guy Stevens, legendary Clash producer.

9) Dump twenty quids worth of coppers into the coin receptacle at the entrance of the Birkenhead tunnel.

The beauty of this is that NO COPPER COINS is clearly stated on the booths. After dumping the change I would hopefully be challenged by the member of staff manning the toll gate, and would respond indignantly “it says there (pointing at sign) you can only use copper coins mate.”

10) Renovate and redecorate someone’s house whilst they are on holiday.

Imagine how confusing it would be if one returned from a holiday to find that their house had been tastefully and comprehensively messed with by an anonymous third party. If only I had the money…….

Stupid things I have done

The Stupidest Things I Have Ever Done

Part 1 – getting my Dad’s car completely stuck in mud on a school playing field.

I was seventeen. Driving past the school, bored, I decided to gatecrash the local parents evening and say hello to some of my old teachers. Upon driving the entire length of the school grounds in the pouring rain I changed my mind and swung the car round using a patch of grass. Without thinking I ploughed straight into the goal mouth (which also doubled up as a shot-putt area) on full lock and the car immediately sank up to its door sills in wet mud. I was so annoyed I could have spit. I tried EVERYTHING to try and get moving. I got out of the car and pushed, I wellied the throttle, I got out and pushed WHILST wellying the throttle, I even raided the CDT bins and jammed the area under the tires with bits of balsa wood and old exam papers. But nothing working worked. After being stuck for half and hour (by this time I think it had gone dark) I had to walk the entire length of the school, bang on the door of the caretakers’ house and beg for him not to lock the school gates so that I could still get out. Eventually I rang Johnny Wallace and he came down in his Cavalier. After much clutch smoke and almost ripping the boot lid of his car John managed to haul me free and I almost wept with delight. I thought I was going to have to call the AA at one point. I didn’t tell my Dad what happened, but he DID start asking questions as to why there was so much mud under his car that it had become impossible to steer properly. The entire steering system had to be professionally scraped.

I love to image the look on Lever and Evans’ faces the next day when they found their lovely field destroyed by foot-deep furrows jammed with wood and exam papers.

Part 2 – gassing my family.

When I was a child I had a penchant for mucky mixes. A ‘mucky mix’, for those who don’t know, is defined as a combination of completely unrelated but easily obtainable substances thrown into a container and stirred. In typical Paul Stearne fashion, I took it to an extreme. Aged ten I made a mucky mix so unnatural that it actually put my family in bed for a week. My Dad, a man who would only called in sick on a handful of occasions during his thirty year career at ICI, actually had to take a week off. This particular mucky mix had everything in it. Soil, hairspray, washing-up liquid, grass, engine oil, flour, cooking oil, rice, bleach, tapioca, caustic soda and glue were contained within. You name it, I used it. Then I carefully poured the goo into a huge copper pot for making jam and heated it on the hob. The fumes were so vile that every window in the house had to be left open for days and my mother actually vomited.

Part 3 – almost getting my father arrested.

Ours was the first household I was aware of to have a photocopier. For some bizarre reason I decided to see how things such as fivers, birth certificates and other official documents copied. Then I remembered the tax disc in my Dad’s car. I distinctly recall taking his car keys and carefully removing the tax disc from the windscreen. After discovering that it was impossible to photocopy – it actually turned out a completely different colour to the original – for some unknown reason I put the original in my trouser pocket. Upon hearing the sound of the washing machine the next afternoon, I realised with horror that the tax disc was IN POCKET OF MY TROUSERS WHICH WERE BEING WASHED. I managed to retrieve the tax disc from the pocket of my now sodden trousers and discovered that it was now a mush about the size and shape of a piece of used bubble-gum. Panic set in. By this point I was freaking out. And I was young. Too young to know that it’s possible to get a replacement tax disc for a tenner from the post office. I actually thought that to replace the thing I would be looking down the barrel of a hundred quid. That’s a lot of money for a seventeen year old. Then I remembered; THE PHOTOCOPY WAS STILL IN THE POTOCOPIER. I got the fruit of my experimentation, carefully cut it out (I even made allowances for the perforations – just like a real tax disc) and put it back from the whence the original had come. It was the best I could do.

All was fine for a month.

We had made a trip to Halton College to try and record some Honey Shop Screamers songs, only to realise that we didn’t know how to use the studio in the slightest. This meant an early finish and an early trip back to Frodsham. It turns out that on the way over to collect us, my Dad had been stopped on the Runcorn Widnes bridge by a police patrol.

I can imagine the conversation:

“May I see your driving license please, Sir?”

(Dad, completely confused and bewildered having done nothing wrong rummages around for his driving license and eventually finds it).

“Are you aware you’re driving with a counterfeit tax disc sir?”

(He calls Dad round to the front of the car and shows him. My Dad examines it closely and realizes it is a photocopy, a very bad photocopy at that. It is also the WRONG COLOUR. By this point his brain is actually melting).

Dad claims he actually had to beg the police officer that he knew nothing about it. He blamed it all on his son (me) and would have words ASAP. Unluckily for me ASAP meant in a car and front of my friends approximately twenty minutes later.

Part 3 – temporarily paralyzing my mother.

I have a very, very vague memory of swinging a plastic bag containing a heavy hard back book at my mothers’ spine. We’re talking infant school age here. I don’t know why I did it. She had to be carried to bed by my father and remained there for the rest of the evening. Thankfully she recovered.

Part 4 – throwing all my fathers’ tools down the drain.

Aged five I managed to prise open the lid of a drain at the back of our house. God knows how I did it; it’s a slab of concrete two by four feet in size and two inches thick. It probably weighs as much as a large man, and is definitely more awkward to lift. I threw pretty much everything to hand down there. I have a memory of my poor mother lying face down reaching into the hole desperately trying to retrieve a hammer.

Part 5 – painting my fathers’ car with creosote.

I take no blame for this one. If a man leaves an open tin of thick, black creosote next to his brand new white car WITH a brush what does he think will happen? I think being aged two when the incident occurred absolves me of all responsibility.

Part 6 – breaking into a brand new sideboard.

At roughly the same age I painted the car I successfully forced my way into a locked sideboard with a screwdriver. I was a very destructive child. The marks are still there to this day, much to my entire family’s annoyance.

Part 7 – being sought by a Yugoslav army.

I like this one. When we were on holiday in Yugoslavia (the summer between infant and primary school I estimate) I ran off on my own, my parents trusting me to stay nearby and not leave the grounds of the hotel in which we were staying. But I decided to go on a little adventure. On returning four hours later covered in mud my fraught-with-worry-but-sobbing-with-relief father told me in no uncertain terms to vanish again. He informed me that when I didn’t return within the hour he had contacted the local authorities who feared that I had been kidnapped by these weird hillbilly-Yugoslavs that allegedly lived in the forest not too far away from our hotel. A platoon of Yugoslav soldiers had been dispatched to find me.

Part 8 – offending a gay.

Aged seventeen I was on my way home from college on the E47 bus. It was crowded as usual. For some reason I started singing the following ditty:


There was no way I could have known that the college gay was sat yards away from me and blatantly heard what I was broadcasting to the entire lower deck. With hindsight it occurs to me that he probably thought I was directing it AT HIM.

Part 9 – being branded a cult member by Interpol.

I also like this one.

Aged approximately seventeen me and Paul Rafferty had American pen-pals. We used to e-mail these girls all the time and I actually came to close to heading over there to meet up with them. We used to them gifts via. international mail and they used to send us things in return. It was, to all intents and purposes, harmless and very good fun.

For some reason we sent one of these poor girls some bacon rind in an envelope and wrote on the envelope ‘SATAN LOVES YOU’ in black marker pen. It may have also featured a drawing of an inverted crucifix. About a week later heard reports back that the recipient had opened the envelope, started badly freaking out and actually called the police. The police came round to investigate, and upon seeing a photograph of me declared “that guy sure looks like he could be in a cult”. But he said nothing about Paul Rafferty (who was also in the photo).

Luckily, nothing came of this. I fear that if we repeated the stunt in today’s terrorism-mad climate I would have been hunted down like a dog.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

More newspaper headlines

Maureen from Driving School goes on wine-fuelled rampage
Tyson found having sex with coffee machine
Library put on giant wheels then stolen
Fountain pushed off cliff
MPs to enter the commons on horseback
'Stock market stole my car' claims doctor
Leisure centre found wandering lost on m25
Man found disguised as wasp

Wholesome, family fun.

Practical jokes that can easily be done.

1) Dress up as the Grim Reaper (including scythe), creep into your victims bedroom in the middle of the night and wake them up bellowing 'YOUR TIME HAS COME'. Just as they are about to have a heart attack whip the hood down and have a jolly good laugh at their expense.

2) Glue someones front door shut. Nobody gets in or out. How good would that be?

3) Resign somebody from their job while they are on holiday.

4) Creep up behind someone and wire their ears up to the mains.

5) Put on a balaclava, burst into the home of someone you know brandishing a knife, pretend that you're a crazed rapist and only pull the plug when they get really upset.

6) Wait until your best friend is going on holiday abroad then hide weapons or fake bombs in his or her luggage.


Why is it that I can't make it to the top of a ladder? I don't mean that in some kind of weird metaphorical sense, I mean literally CANNOT GET TO ANYWHERE NEAR THE TOP OF A LADDER. I realise this still sounds like I'm making some kind of allusion to something greater but I really mean that statement.


I'm trying to paint the front of our house but cannot do the bloody gutters. It's too fucking high. I'm generally quite cowardly by nature but also not averse to a bit of climbing but something about the height FUCKS MY BRAIN IN. The thing that annoys me is seeing the 80 year old window cleaner on our street happily climbing higher than Nelson's Column every day without a care in the world, blissfully unconcerned that if he was to fall his old and brittle bones would crumble to dust. His family would then have to tend his grave, silently weeping in the rain until they too were mashed up in a terrible ladder-related mishap. And so the cycle goes on.

What the hell am I going to do? The only thing I can think of is getting really pissed before going up there. If that doesn't work I might have to literally CALL A LADDER MAN.

People too stupid to talk. It's got that bad folks.

Why do people struggle with the following words:

1) Specific.

Stop saying 'PACIFIC'. The Pacific is an ocean (, not an adjective. If you're unsure what 'specific' means you can get a definition here SORT IT OUT YOU MORONS.

2) Compilation.

It's not combilation, compitation or combination (although that *is* a word). Maybe if you spent less time drinking in shit pubs and read some fucking books you're be able to communicate in a reasonable way. Now fuck off you leather jacket wearing, chain-smoking, 60 year old life insurance risk.

3) Brought.

It doesn't mean the same as 'bought'. It means something completely different actually.

Monday, 8 June 2009

Stuff overheard recently

1) Two girls talking in HMV. One says to the other "look at thoses CDses". 'CDses'!

2) Liverpool World Museum. There is a family stood next to a giant crab pinned to the wall in a glass box. This thing is massive, probably over a meter in diameter and red. The mother says to her child "look at that spider" (pointing up at it). Excuse me luv but it's clearly not a spider. IT'S PINK, GOT AND SHELL AND CLAWS FOR GOD'S SAKE!! AND SINCE WHEN DO SPIDERS GROW TO A FUCKING METER IN DIAMETER? It depresses me that someone who lacks the intellect to differentiate between a crab and a spider is entrusted to raise a child. You stupid, fat, red-faced, cigarette smoking slag.

3) I was in work when a man approached me and the following conversation took place:

Man: Where's yer sky-fi? (saying sky to rhyme with 'eye')
Me: I beg your pardon?
Man: I'm looking for sky-fi.
Me: Do you mean sci-fi?
Man: Yeah, that's it mate. Sky-fi. (still saying it wrong despite the fact I have corrected him)
Me: It's generally amongst the TV drama. What are you looking for?
Man: Slidders. (to rhyme with 'bidders')
Me: Slidders?
Man: Slidders.
Me: Do you mean Sliders (to rhyme with 'riders')?
Man: That's the one. Slidders. (still saying it wrong)

Incredible isn't it.

Tuesday, 2 June 2009

Queen, the early days

In the early days Queen's tour bus was known as the Sugary Rumour. According to drummer Roger this was because once in 1971 Brian opened a can of Tizer, spraying himself and the driver with the the sticky red ooze in the process. To this day Brain claims to "fucking detest that stuff, man" (Tizer). Interestingly if you note the colour of Brian's 'Red Special' trademark guitar you cannot argue that the colour is anything other than Tizer Red. Owing to the embarassing nature of the incident and Brian's swift denial, this quickly became folklore amongst the band and roadcrew.

Only the most cynical of Queen fans would refute the accuracy of this theory.

But one thing we are certain of this this; Freddie Mercury was born with his neck as an internal organ. It wasn't until the age of 15 that Fred's family were able to afford an operation to extend his neck out of his torso, thus stretching his vocal chords in the process and giving him his unique singing voice. To see Freddie as a school child it was clear that his school friends had long, sexy necks. But Fred's chin clearly rested on his chest, even when gazing up at the constellation Alpha Centauri on a clear summers eve. Upon asking Fred's mother about this in 1997 she said:

"It was clear that Freddie was fucked from a young age. The prick's neck was buried in his chest like some kind of fucked up mine shaft. A local vicar suggested holding a Blue Peter bring-and-buy sale to raise money for Freddie's operation. We raised £38 that day and booked Freddie into Kidongo Chekundo hospital 3 years later."


One of my work colleagues claims to reached his mid 30s never having owned a suit. His reason for this is that he fears looking like 'Oddjob', a caveman-shaped character from the bond film Goldfinger ( I cannot explain how much this cracks me up.

the wheels of commerce

From my personal experience of company directors it I can be certain of that fact that they are no cleverer that me. And that's not very clever. To be a company director you only need to meet the following criteria:

1) Wear expensive glasses. The ones that only have rims around the top.
2) Either wear a suit without a tie or a v-neck over a shirt. I think it's called 'smart/casual'.
3) Work in London.
4) Appear pleasant but slightly quiet.
5) Drop a few very specific words and phrases into conversation. These include:

"Going forward"
"Year on year"
"Like for like"

6) Work 12 hour days and never see your kids.

I honestly I believe that I could get dressed up, turn up at the head office of a massive company on a specific day and blag it for a week as a PR director.

Hugh Jackman

After watching the new Wolverine film it would appear that both my fiance and future mother-in-law share a passion for Hugh Jackman. Should I be offended by this? Nah. Life is too short to resent the fact that my missus fancies this ripped, weird-haired, Australian prick. It doesn't offend me at all.

(Ed: Is he Australian?)

new things

I'm off to buy a wedding suit tomorrow. Who knows what I will come home with. Maybe I should get a linen outfit, replete with cain, white top hat and brief case. That way I could pretend I am the man from Del Monte and assure friends and family that oranges are indeed good enough to be made into juice. Or I could just get a normal suit. I am still undecided friends.


Let's dance to Joy Division and celebrate the irony.

Indeed, let us do that friends.

Lets celebrate the fact that that Joy Division were absolutely AMAZING and the Wombats are completely shit. I don't mean run-of-the-mill shit, I mean woefully, "I have to switch radio stations" shit.

While we're doing this lets give a shout out to Half Man Half Biscuit, a band that should be awarded MBEs. They've done more for British music than pretty much anyone I can name.

"Your optimism strikes me like junk mail addressed to the dead."

Monday, 1 June 2009

Things I will *never* understand

1) Whenever I use a cash machine the person in front takes 2 hours to get their money out. Why? What are they doing? It's not like they're performing a vastly complex mental calculation. Naturally I will be in and out in less than 3 seconds.

2) Nobody seems to use indicators any more. Call me naive but I LIKE TO KNOW WHEN YOU ARE ABOUT TO DO A FUCKING ILLEGAL U-TURN RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME YOU FAT, TAXI DRIVING PRICK. I AM NOT A MIND READER AND WOULD LIKE TO AVOID HAVING A CRASH IF IT'S OKAY BY YOU? These are the same people that take their entire family to McDonalds for dinner. Fucktards.

3) People who cannot get their heads round the concept of queueing. It's simple my old, mentally challenged friend. So simple that I have broken it down into easy steps:

a) Look at the tills


b) Read the signs at either end. One will say ENTRANCE, the other will say EXIT. Even if there is no signs you can tell where to stand from a) people already queueing to pay b) the path of the rope barrier.


c) Either join the existing queue at the back or make your own queue starting at the ENTRANCE.

Do not, I repeat DO NOT just march up to the counter and get pissed off when you're not being served. Only wankers do this. All that happens is people will ending hating you more than they do anyway, which is a considerable amount my retarded friend.

3) People who will wait 40 minutes for a bus and then choose to get their change out when the driver asks for payment. It is usually someone whose wallet is buried deep at the bottom of their rucksack. It can take them up to an hour to get their change out.

4) People who insist on getting as sunburnt as possible at the first hint of summer. It's like saying: "Winter is here. Therefore I must try and get as many colds as possible".

5) Shorts, smart shoes and white socks pulled up high. Say no more. We must find a way to destroy these morons.

6) Fat mothers (I mean mother as in parent, not 'muthafucker') wearing pyjamas to the shops. They're usually smoking and accompanied by a child. How's about getting off your fat arse and, say, GETTING DRESSED? I know I'm not exactly the worlds best dressed person but at least I've got enough self-respect to not wear my bloody NIGHTWARE to the shops.

Sunday, 31 May 2009

the place in which I live

If, like me, you live in a relatively poor area, you may wonder how on earth people can afford expensive cars.

I do too.

Why is it that the really, really ropey houses here all seem to have BMWs parked outside? When the day comes that I consider buying a BMW I can guarantee I will not live here.

Where do these people get their money from? They can’t all be drug dealers. And if they can afford a brand new Audi A6 why on earth do they live in Old Swan? It makes no sense. It’s like wearing a £2000 suit and dining in McDonalds.

I can only assume that these cars belong to young chaps who live rent-free with their parents and spend all their spare cash on a nice set of wheels. But come on, nobody has got a job in Liverpool any more. And who would be daft enough to leave a nice car unattended on the street here for more than 10 minutes? I feel twitchy as hell leaving my washing on the line over night.
Universal Truths

Never pass up the opportunity to use a toilet.

If I could only give one piece of advice to my future children it would be this. The amount of times I have been ‘caught short’ on car journeys, cinema trips, and shopping sprees would take a supercomputer to count. I swear once my bladder swelled up to the size of a space-hopper when I was stuck in traffic in Rusholme.

Never mix the grape and the grain.

I know it’s 4am. I know you’re already drunk. I know the bar is shut. I know all you’ve got left is an abandoned bottle of Pinot Grigio, but I promise you it’s not worth it. You will throw up behind a skip on the way home and your children will look at you with sad, tearful eyes.

However it is fully reasonable to mix the seed with the grape.

Most things can usually only be fixed a few times.

This can be applied to anything from clothing to brickwork. But my favourite example of this is my old bike. This thing cost £100 new and I was still using it 5 years later. Towards the end of its life it literally had no brakes, the chain was 2” shorter because the links kept breaking, the wheels had been hammered back into shape 2 million times and the seat was smelly. I replaced it and people stopped hating me.

It’s worth paying out for a good quality car.

Generally if you’ve got a car more than 10 years old with more than 100k miles on you should replace it. Forking out for something that runs is preferable to breaking down on the Runcorn-Widnes bridge every day.

If you can avoid working then do

As long as I don’t have to foot the bill for it.

Don’t ever expect to be home when your parcel arrives.

I guarantee no matter carefully you plan your schedule you will still not be home when those printer cartridges turn up. They will be signed for by a neighbour who will promptly sell them on Ebay.

Every year on Britain’s Got Talent there will be a mock-classical artist

They will either sing Nessun Dorma or play futuristic violins. They will be terrible. However sometimes they will be quite fit.

Lorry drivers are all lying, murdering scumbags who should be avoided like big AIDS.


Things I have noticed about supermarkets:

1) The checkout girls will *always* be engaged in a conversation with each other. Sometimes this conversation will span 3 or 4 tills, like some EPOS coffee morning type situation. They will not greet you, talk to you, or look you in the eye. They will however scan things so fast that you do not stand a chance of getting them bagged up quickly enough. Then they will ask you if you have a loyalty card even though you have already offered it to them. They will not bid you farewell.

2) There will always be a token member of staff that suffers from Downs Syndrome. Why?

3) Whichever queue you join, the person in front of you will choose to cash in 2 years worth of tokens. They will then forget 4 items and go looking for them.

4) Some idiot will try and pay for their entire 6-child monthly shop at the cigarette kiosk. They will then not understand why they have to queue up again at the normal tills.

5) Some idiot will ask for cigarettes at the normal checkout and then express dismay when this cannot be accommodated for.

6) The person in front of you will not be able to use the self-service tills. Every single item that they scan will require the assistance of a fat, red-faced and overworked customer service advisor. They will somehow scan some nuts and the till will think it is an angle-poise lamp. You will be charged for the lamp and then be unable to get a refund.

7) There will be a gang of OAPs who will block the entire isle. Every sector of the supermarket will grind to a halt when they are there.

8) The chaps who work on the produce isle will look like youth offenders. They will be shaven-headed, not know the difference between a cauliflower and a melon, have hatred in their eyes and allow food to fall on the floor.

9) The security staff will look bored.

10) There will always be a sad looking dog tied up outside. Usually a Westie.

11) There will always be a downtrodden husband smoking outside. He is so addicted to nicotine that he cannot last the duration of the weekly shop without a crafty fag.

12) If you shop at Tesco it will always have expanded since you were last there.

13) Invariably a charity will be shaking tins outside asking for your money. You will lie to them on the way in and then on the way out again.

14) There will be someone hopelessly trying to get people to join the AA in the car park. They will have a miniature kiosk. They will look unhappy.

15) You will examine the clothing but then decide it is all awful.

16) Despite Tesco promising to open adjacent tills if you’re are in a queue they will not do this.

17) There is never baskets to hand when you need them.

18) There will always be large, executive cars parked in the disabled bays next to the shop entrance. The only disability these people will suffer from is a fat arse.

19) There is always a shop assistant restocking the shelf you need to get to, blocking all the shelves with large metal crates.

20) Occasionally a tramp will enter the shop and head for the booze aisle. The security guards will spring to life, follow him over, realise he stinks of shit and then leave him be

Sunday, 24 May 2009

Newspaper headlines I would like to see

Queen inherits rat
Man found living in hollowed out buffalo
North sea declared 'too salty'
Brian May gang raped
Single wasp terrorises family for 5 generations
Bob Dylan 'all wrong inside'
Goose found on Mars
Ape rides horse
Hulk Hogan seen disguised as orange

Thursday, 21 May 2009

More things I have noticed about buses

1) They're always filthy. Even first thing in the morning. Has anyone *ever* been on a bus that isn't riddled with disease?
2) There is always folded up bus tickets pressed into the rubber seal that surrounds the windows.
3) Someone always gets on just for one stop.
4) Two old women will be talking very loudly about FUCK ALL.
5) You will get a cold from the man constantly sneezing behind you.

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

Mad Frank

I was recently re-reading one of Mad Frankie Frasers memoirs. In this particular one he itemises each major city and the mischief he has been involved with in the past 70 years. The entry for Liverpool emphasises that he hardly did anything worth mentioning, other than.....


That's *all* it was.

I mean, how criminally minded must the man be if he barely mentions frying someone alive?

Good boy Frank!

20 things to do before I die

Some of these are more realistic than others.

1) Drive up one of those car transporters you occasionally see parked at the side of motorways. At 70mph.
2) Go mental with a flamethrower in a public place.
3) Wire my head up to the mains.
4) Wire a kitchen appliance directly into the wall. No plug or anything, just solder the wires into the terminals.
5) Walk sideways down the street dressed as a ninja.
6) Smuggle some drums into a cinema and start playing them mid film.
7) Open the coolant-opening on the back of a bus. The ones that say 'do not open'.
8) Find someone in a wheelchair and somehow attach it to the front of a lorry.
9) Mount a machine gun on the bonnet of my car.
10) Steal a crucifix from a church and mount it on my car.
11) Make tea in my mouth.
12) Make Brian May's life a misery for a bit. Just a bit.
13) Release a lion into a pub.
14) Drive a car into the sea.
15) Drive a JCB.
16) Take a huge ladder on the bus.
17) Fire a shotgun from a moving car. Terminator style.
18) Solve a massive crime.

Anyone got any more?

Cumfy Bus

Can anyone explain to me where these Cumfy Buses have come from? The first time I caught one was very early in the morning over Christmas. They're a different colour to normal buses, have fucking balloons painted on the side, go on insane routes and only seem to charge £1. And there is never, *ever* anyone else on them. Has someone set up their own little bus company to undercut those Arriva wankers?

Who knows!

Crazy woman

There is a woman who lives in the top half of our street known to me and Lyns simply as 'crazy woman'. All day, every day she stands on her doorstep and talks to passers in the street. The first time I encountered her she pressed a crisp £20 note into the palm of my hand and the following conversation took place:

Me: What's this for? (holding £20 note)
Her: Can you do me a favour?
Me: Okay (confused....very confused)
Her: Can you go to the off license for me?
Me: Okay (in a moment of madness). What do you want?
Her: You can get these fruit drinks, they're in amongst the wines.
Me: Okay. How many?
Her: 7 bottles.
Me: 7? Okay.

At this point I walked off with the money, came to my senses, returned back and told her I was too busy. There's no way I'm feeding this bitch's booze habit. Her husband will probably kick the shit out of me, poor man. No wonder he takes her door keys with him when he goes out.

Because she stands on the doorstep all bloody day we've started using an adjacent street just to avoid her. Yet another reason to get out of Liverpool.

Such is life.

makes me sick

John Lyndon doing a butter advert. I mean, doesn't it make you question everything? He used to slag Joe Strummer off saying he was a fake and a charlatan. Not true. Strummer never tried to hide the fact he was middle-class. Strummer was in fact furious when Mick Jones allowed a Clash song to be used for a jeans advert. What an obnoxious, hypocritical prick John Lyndon actually is. And don't try and tell me you're short of money because you clearly aren't!

Whatever next, Ian McKaye doing B&Q commercials?

Maybe Fred Dibnah advertising the Ministry Of Sound 2009?

the ultimate antidote to this ridiculous world

Things that make me unexpectedly cheerful:

1) You Can Call Me Al - I find it impossible to be in a bad mood when listening to this song.
2) Stroking a donkey
3) Watching the rain through a window
4) Being in Liverpool centre without actually having to go to work
5) The Apprentice
6) Top Gear (I know it's wrong)
7) Peep Show (nothing beats it)
8) The warmth of the 10A bus when being stood in the cold (not too warm though).
9) An open fire. Must make sure our next house has one.
10) A hot bath
11) Reading

I still maintain that the most relaxing experience I have ever had in my entire life was on holiday in St Davids. I was surrounded by friends, lying across two old arms chairs pushed together, reading a book about Henry Cooper, sipping red wine and enjoying a roaring open fire. My God it was good.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

Queen, the early days.

In the early days Queen's tour bus was known as the Sugary Rumour. According to drummer Roger this was because once in 1971 Brian opened a can of Tizer, spraying himself and the driver with the the sticky red ooze in the process. To this day Brain claims to "fucking detest that stuff, man" (Tizer). Interestingly if you note the colour of Brian's 'Red Special' trademark guitar you cannot argue that the colour is anything other than Tizer Red. Owing to the embarassing nature of the incident and Brian's swift denial, this quickly became folklore amongst the band and roadcrew. Only the most cynical of Queen fans would refute the accuracy of this theory.

But one thing we are certain of this this; Freddie Mercury was born with his neck as an internal organ. It wasn't until the age of 15 that Fred's family were able to afford an operation to extend his neck out of his torso, thus stretching his vocal chords in the process and giving him his unique singing voice. To see Freddie as a school child it was clear that his school friends had long, sexy necks. But Fred's chin clearly rested on his chest, even when gazing up at the constellation Alpha Centauri on a clear summers eve. Upon asking Fred's mother about this in 1997 she said:

"It was clear that Freddie was fucked from a young age. The prick's neck was buried in his chest like some kind of fucked up mine shaft. A local vicar suggested holding a Blue Peter bring-and-buy sale to raise money for Freddie's operation. We raised £38 that day and booked Freddie into Kidongo Chekundo hospital 3 years later."


No bus is complete without the following:

1) At least one person that stinks of shit. Usually sat next to you.
2) Someone either coughing or sneezing constantly. Usually sat next to you.
3) An empty beer can rolling around on the floor. Usually spilling onto your shoes.
4) A pram containing a screaming child. Again, this will be very close to you.
5) Someone in a suit talking loudly on a mobile phone. They will be sat next to you.
6) Phlegm on the floor. And on the soles of your shoes.
7) Either hotter than the sun or colder than outer space.
8) A bus driver that will not even look at (let alone speak to) you when you pay the fare.
9) One of those asthmatic, sweating, red-faced, 30 stone, NHS-draining life insurance risks that probably claim their immense size is due to hormones. They will be wheezing but won't sit next to you as their fat arse doesn't leave room for two.
10) A toddler that may run up and down the bus only stopping to stare at you. They will drop their dummy or toy on the floor and their mother will simply place it back in the childs mouth.
11) An old man trying to carry 6 bags of shopping and a small dog. When he tries to carry the bags he will let go of the dog, which will then terrorise everyone on the bus. Then when he goes to retrieve the dog his shopping bags will fall over and and spread their contents around the floor of the bus. This cycle will happen 3 or 4 times in the space of a 10 minute journey.

Halton Lea

Clear all the shops out of there, fill it with smoke, install some neon lights, play some futuristic dance music and you have the biggest laser quest venue in the world.

things I see every day

Things I do not like to see on the high street:

1) Scally families. Today I saw an entire family dressed in shell suits. AN ENTIRE FAMILY. That's 3 generations of scum - kids, parents and grandparents - all wearing clothes designed for toddlers. I mean what the hell is wrong with these pricks? Generation after generation of wankers, all locked into a self-perpetuating cycle of misery and unemployment. My interest in getting out of Liverpool has soared as of late.

2) Charity muggers that look like bouncers. I swear to God today we gave £3 to someone who looked like they could have held their own on the Category A wing in Risley. He had tattoos on his hand for piss sake.

3) Slow walkers. I feel like punching these pigs in the back of the head. If you can't walk at more than 0.00001 mph then you should not be on the street. I don't care how old you are, how knackered your knees have become or how fucked your heart is. GET IT?

4) People who will happily shout a conversation across a busy shop without a care in the world.

5) When old people react to a tiny bit of rain as if it's the worst thing that could possibly happen. Cheer up nana. You're going to be cremated soon so enjoy life before it is torn away from you.

Sunday, 10 May 2009

my idea for a TV prog

It's called......


The idea behind it is quite simple. Take 10 normal, healthy human beings all of similar height, weight and age. Give them a time frame - 12 months should do - and an unlimited budget and see who can put on the most weight. If any of them dies as a result of the contest then so be it. The prize could be a speedboat or something.

Sunday bloody Sunday

Not a bad Sunday at all. Went into work for 2 hours this morning to try and get a head-start on tomorrow's activites, what good it has done is yet to be seen. Alas I have a clear conscience now which is the most important thing.

Highlight of the day was seeing the new Star Trek film. I really enjoyed this film, but then I am a massive fan of Star Trek in general so no surprises there. One thing I will say though is that it completely blows all other Star Trek films out of the water, especially the Next Generation ones. It makes me a bit sad because I do enjoy those Next Generation films but this is sooooooo different even non-Trekkie fans might enjoy it. It's by no means faultess but certainly a step forward in my book. Good cast too.

There's something about Star Trek that I find deeply comforting. It's probably a mixture of nostalgia and geekdom of the higest order.

WWE wrestling

I had the opportunity to go and see the WWE wrestling at the Echo Arena last month. What a night that was! I used to be obsessed with wrestling as a child (back when it was called WWF) so owed it to myself and my family to go and see a live event.

Everyone knows it's fake and it *is* very corny. But it's also impossible not to get swept up in the excitement of the whole thing when you're there.

This got me to thinking. What is the most offensive thing you could do in front of an arena audience? I honestly believe that during the interlude I could have jumped the steel barrier, got in the ring and done one of the following:

1) Stripped off and rubbed shit into my dick.
2) Done a turd in the ring.
3) Stripped off and rammed something up my arse.
4) Dropped my kecks and spun round pissing.
5) Molested a child.
6) Windmilled my balls.

Any more suggestions?

Imagine molesting a child in front of a live audience! That would surely be a first.


What the hell is it about Tyson that makes him so interesting? Normally I find sports people boring as watching salt dry but there's is something about this man that piques my interest. Have you seen him recently? My God! He's so fat that the Earth's orbit changes when he runs for a bus (if he could run that is, which he probably can't). Mind you he probably doesn't even use buses but you get my drift.

He's a like a small boy lost in the world, desperately hoping that someone will take him by the hand and tell him what to do. I mean what *is* the guy supposed to do? The only rod of consistency he's had in his life (apart from banging hookers in motel rooms) was ripped away from him when he went down for rape. Not that that was anyone's fault but his own, mind.

Imagine. A small boy lured into the multi-million dollar world of heavyweight boxing at a young age and then spat out the other end with nothing. I guess it's a bit like Michael Jackson all over again. Overnight becoming ridicuously famous and then losing the plot because nobody ever showed you right from wrong. I mean, the guy grew up in poverty for God's sake. Is it any wonder he went a bit mental when suddenly presented with enough money to rescure the world economy?

For all the negative things written about this prick I can only say boxing needs people like him. I don't mean rapists, I mean characters. I don't want to see fucking 7ft tall emotionless man-machines with fists the size of microwave ovens, I want *real* men with mental problems who are volatile and piss their money up the wall.

Here is a small, conceptual poem I wrote:

Iron Mike
Fresh from the streets
A Man with bad intentions
He will die

Sunday, 3 May 2009


Can I just make something clear before I rant:

I like Oasis.

I don't own any of their albums but I think they've done some great songs. True, when they were a new and exciting band in the mid 90s I much preferred Blur (and still do to this day) but I always admired their punk edge and anthemic choruses. There's very few things that uplift me as much as the chorus of Aqcuiesce.

But what the fuck is up with these floppy haired, leather jacket wearing 'mad for it' pricks obsessed with everything Manchester? I mean, half of them live south of Birmingham! C'mon, you've met these guys too. They can be identified by certain characteristics:

1) Floppy, 'mod' style hair. A la Paul Weller.
2) Vaguely moddish clothing. Usually Levis, checked shirts and occasionally a parka.
3) An obsession with the Ocean Colour Scene, Stone Roses, Paul Weller, Morrissey and of course those walking shit farmers Oasis.
4) That cocky swagger as developed by Liam Gallagher.
5) Usually a bottle of beer in hand.

Where the hell do these worthless pieces of shit come from? Do they not realise it's 2009? Stearnebine needs to put the knowledge out there:

1) Oasis lost their edge 10 years ago. And that's being generous.
2) Weller should be ashamed of the crap he puts out now. The Jam were incredible, which makes his current status even more unforgivable.
3) Ian Brown needs to spend less time threatening air hostesses.
4) Ocean Colour Scene were never *anything* other than mod revivalists.
5) Manchester doesn't produce any good bands any more and hasn't for the past 10 years. So there.

We need to find a way to destroy these morons.

Wednesday, 29 April 2009

Get rich quick

Money. Those who own a house think about it a lot. It appears to me that unless you're either Elton John or a hedgefund manager you will *never* have enough money to get your house the way you want it. This got me thinking of schemes to make a bit of the ol' filthy lucre.

1) A chain of shops called 'Rape'. In my minds eyes these would be clothing outlets, probably selling to the type of person who shops at Monsoon. As far as I know there's no law against giving a shop an unusual name. It might actually be an advantage in this harsh economic hinterland.

Come to think of it, there's no reason why this should be limited to clothing. Why not makeup, perfume, home furninshings and hairdressing? All under one roof!

2) A clothing range called 'Pisstank'. This would be ultra top-end stuff probably bought by Victoria Beckham and the like. Again, as far as I know there's nothing to stop me naming my own particular clothing in such a way. Naturally it would solely be stocked at Rape outlets.

3) Disposable hammers.

4) Mobile phones that ONLY TEXT AND MAKE PHONE CALLS. NOTHING ELSE. Call me a miserable bastard but I do not want a mobile phone that can record vidoes, take pictures, surf the web, play the radio and dial into fucking Nasa. I simply want a small, robust handset that features large buttons and a large screen that is CHEAP. Oh yeah, and the battery needs to last longer than a nano-second. Incredibly nothing seems to exist that fits these criteria.

5) Disposable mobile phones. Pay £100, when the credit is gone simply bin the bloody thing. That way you never end up with a handset that is out of date. Not that I care about such things.

6) Fizzy milk.

Now to give Theo Paphitis a ring. Or any of the Dragons for that matter.