priceless, fucking priceless

It was early Sunday. I was in Marylebone High Street waiting for the famers market to get going - what can I say, I live in a middle-class urban bubble, don't you know. With time to kill, I found myself in Le Pain Quotidien, a swanky, no ready arsey, bakery/cafe.

I ordered a boiled egg and asked for a side order of toast.

I can't have toast.

But toast and jams is on the menu

But the boiled egg comes with bread

Well toast the bread that the egg comes with.




tell me something I don't know

Is it just me? Well, maybe, but considering the votes of confidence and the number of hits I get, it would suggest not, so I'm going to share this with you.

This pisses me off

And this

And this
Have you spotted it yet?

No, it's not kids, I got one of them myself and I love him to bits, he's one of the very good bits in my life. No, the thing that pisses me off are that fact card manufacturers think it's okay to write the fucking obvious on the front of new arrival cards.

If you haven't had a baby, let you talk you though it. It takes 9 months slow progress during which time you do a lot of talking and thinking about what's going to come into your life. You get to see pictures of a growing foetus, you get asked if you want to know the sex. But even if you didn't want to know right then, during the birth you get to find out. Then, after a bit of a rest you get to tell everyone you know that you'd had a baby ....... And then those very same people send you cards and all they can find to send you are these stupid cards that tell you what you've had.

Congratulations, It's a boy/girl/twins

I know it's a boy! I was fucking there! I fucking told you three days ago. I don't need a card telling me what I already know. I'm tired but I'm not fucking stupid.

You don't print condolence cards that say, She's Dead, do you?

So card-makers, think before you create your next range of new arrivals cards. It's your laziness that REALLY PISSES ME OFF, YOU BASTARDS.


litter lout

Got stuck behind this bastard the other day. Now I don't think I've ever been in a Renault, but I'm sure it's like every modern car - steering wheel - up front, some dials, a few pedals. Even an ashtray. And even with all that stuff there's usually plenty of room for rubbish, so why the fuck does this wanker think it's okay to throw his rubbish out of the window? food wrapper, paper cup and then some other general bits and pieces. Which is why, you selfish pig, you REALLY PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARD



I could fill this whole blog with the crap that comes through my door, but I just save the really great oneS. Like this, from those wonderful people at Daker Estates - no I've never heard of them either. But it probably won't surprise you to know they are quality estate agents. Not just any old estate agents, you understand. Quality, this lot. Personally I'd have gone for idiotic, dim-witted arses of estate agents, but each to their own.

What were they thinking with this? I'll have a stab at guessing.

Print a letter with SPECIAL DELIVERY on it. In RED. Because red is really impressive and totally un-ignorable. And if that isn't enough lets add, EXCITING NEWS INSIDE, that will get people tearing the envelope open with rabid intensity.

And when they do, what will they find? Next weeks lottery numbers? The fact that World Peace has broken out? A break though in curing AIDS? To be honest, I'd have even accepted, Mr and Mrs Daker are expecting a baby - at least that would have been exciting, if only to them.

No, you get this.

So what was so exciting? That required it's own envelope and my undivided attention?

The offer of a FREE Market Appraisal! (Their font and punctuation, I hasten to add.)




Yauatcha, a rather swanky restaurant that serves up fine Chinese food at a price. Not that I'm complaining, I know what they charge and I like their food, so it's my choice, right.

On my last occassion, it being a hot day and me being a vaguely health-conscious sort of fellow, I had with me a bottle of mineral water - something that would appear to be deeply offensive to the staff of Yauatcha. I hadn't even sat down at the table, before....
"You can't drink that water here."
"I wasn't going to."
"Can I take it please."
"I'll look after it for you, while you dine."
"Can I see the manager?"
The manager comes over.
"I'm sorry, we don't allow customers to drink their own water."
"I never said I'd wanted to."
"I can look after it for you."
No need, I'll stick it on the floor, if you want it out of sight."
"You might drink it."
"I won't."
"We don't allow bottles of water on the table"
"Not even one of your expensive, fancy glass ones."
Shit, I knew I had lost by mentioning expensive. It was meant to elude to their greed. But I could see in his eyes, he heard, 'I'm not drinking your water, it's too expensive." Bugger. I handed over the water. I ate. I got my water back. I scored a small victory. Now along with the water on the table rule, there's a no camera rule.




Don't let the bastards get you down

If I didn't blog here, this would be me



I like sushi. It's a great meal. So, well done Japan, I salute you. Not so Samurai, a small chain of fast food sushi restaurants. Let's be honest, it really isn't the best sushi in London, but it's reflected in the price, so you get what you pay for. Which in my case was 4 pieces of nigiri, a single hand roll and a miso soup. Your average lunch site portion I'm sure you'll agree.

Back at my desk I lunched. At the end of lunch I was left with

One man (angry). One lunch (average portion). One huge fucking amount of rubbish. Is this necessary? Is this wanted? Is this smart? Is it fuck. This is worse that McDonalds. Worse than the British Government not taxing carrier bags. Worse than wrapping a banana in cellophane before selling it.... Actually, hold that one, it's exactly the fucking same as wrapping food in cellophane. I will never go there again. NEVER. Because YOU'VE PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARDS.



I don't smoke. Never have, not really. I do remember a time when I found myself behind a bike shed or somewhere and being told this white stick with the brown end was the answer to not being cool. It tasted shit and I coughed a lot, so fuck cool - I think was the end result.

And I'm glad I did. Especially when they started putting those really big warnings on the sides of packets. You know the kind of thing - SMOKING KILLS. SMOKING WILL GIVE YOU CANCER. SMOKING WON'T MAKE YOU COOL. Pretty conclusive stuff in my books.

So to smoke right now, with all that we know about it is down right fucking stupid.

The only thing even more stupid is selling these in a joke shop that is full of kids. The shop is in
Spitalfields Market and I forgot to take a picture of it's name, but it's there all the same and they should know, YOU HAVE PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARD.



Got this in my inbox today (do click on it to enlarge it). Begs the question, why? Why me?

I just don't understand. Nothing about me, my company, or any company I've ever worked for is the slightest bit related to insurance or solicitors, or 0800NoWinNoFee, or even Nigerian Insurance scams. A google search of me will show I'm as far removed from these industries as anyone can be. Nothing in my email address would lead to any confusion. So all I can think is is a complete and utter arse.

The email includes a phone number, so I called it, you get a number of choices all of which end up on an answerphone, although for all intents and purposes it would appear to be a proper company. Feel free to ring him if you like. 0870 760 6321. if you do, please tell him HE PISSED ME OFF, THE BASTARD



That's a lovely ad isn't it? All nicely laid out to tell you about those fantastic offers and savings. And I like an offer me, so Last Week! Final Reductions! Well that's right up my street that is.

I mean look at some of those saving. 40 quid off a hard drive usually selling for the best part of a oner. That's like, a huge saving that is. Some would say, a right proper bargain. People like me for a start.

But before you do anything so rash as think that this is indeed a steal may I direct you to the small print.....

So, that's a fucking ten pound saving then. All legal and above board, but as dishonest as a geezer bloke selling 'perfume' from a box on Oxford St. And that is why YOU, PC WORLD, PISSED ME OFF YOU BASTARDS.


greedy, stupid, optometrist

Greedy and stupid is Adam Simmonds. He sells swanky glasses and expensive contact lenses
to yummie mummies and their city hubbies in Primrose Hill. I use to get my eyes tested by him yearly and bought my lenses from him (dispite not being a yummie mummy nor a city hubby). It was that time of the year again and so I needed to get my eyes tested and buy some new contacts. So I phoned him up.

The conversation went some thing like;
Me: Can I book an appointment to get my eyes tested?
Adam S: Is it for contacts or glasses?
Me: Does it matter?
Adam S: To me
Me: Contact lenses
Adam S: Will you be buying them from us
Me: Not when they're a third cheaper on the net, no.
Adam S: Then no, you can't
Me: But I'm entitled to a free eye test, because of family history

Line goes dead.
So I went off to SpecSavers instead, who were smashing. Not like Adam Simmonds who PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARD


Covent Garden's crappiest shop

Simple enough story. I bought a jacket here. Well, it was the sales and all that and it has been cold lately. Oh, how lovely they were, I couldn't make my mind up between a medium and a large. I'm kind of built like that - between sizes. It's the same with shoes am I a 7 and half? Or an 8? A 41 or a 42. It's bugger I can tell you.

But I digress. Back to Interstate of Covent Garden. Oh they were so nice, couldn't have been nicer. I opted for the medium - the right choice I think, even now.

So I get it home and what do I find? A bloody mark on the sleeve. So I went back to the shop. explained the situation - would they change it, like fuck they would. It ended in a raised voices. I ended up storming out and, in a fit of anger, giving the coat and reciept to the next homeless bloke I saw. I like to think he went back in and caused even more trouble for the bastards in Interstate, Covent Garden. (And even if he didn't, I hope you're a little warmer matey).

Either way, you lot at Interstate, Covent Garden, YOU PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARDS.


crap dentist

Nice shiny plaque so he must be good, right? Wrong. I dropped about three and half grand with Tim Morris, dentist to the fucking mugs of London. Now, I hate the dentist - something about sticking evil looking tools of pain in mouths all day, does that. Anyway that figure was the culmination of a lot of years neglect and included two caps, so while that's a lot of coin, it was needed if I was ever going to smile with confidence again.

About 2 months after the work, the first cap fell out, it was refitted, then the second one fell out, then the first one again. Well you can imagine my surprise when I went back and Timmo told me that it was my fault. How so? Oh I've been eating again. well of course, that's down to me, fair cop gov'. Now, imagine just who fucking gobsmacked I was when I was told I would need a bridge, which is like two caps in one and twice as fucking expensive.

I said I'd think about it and made my excuses and left.

Time for second opinion. This time I went to a lovely dentist, Dr. Peraria, seeing as you didn't ask, only discover that cap one was always going to fall out as it was embedded in a cracked tooth and so would always have wobbly foundations.

I really should have looked at the sign by the buzzer to get an idea of what he was really like.

So, Tim Morris BDS, now you know why YOU PISSED ME OFF YOU BASTARD.


an email from a reader

Got sent this from one of you, thanks Jon I wholeheartedly agree with this behaviour.
When you occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out on someone you know -- take it out on someone you don't know.
I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I had forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it.
A man answered, saying, "Hello."
I politely said, "Could I please speak with Robin Carter?"
Suddenly, the phone was slammed down on me.
I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude. I realized I had called the wrong number. I tracked down Robin's correct number and called her. I had accidentally transposed the last two digits of her phone number. After hanging up with her, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again. When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled, "You're an asshole!" and hung up.
I wrote his number down with the word 'asshole' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer.
Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're an asshole!" It always cheered me up.
When Caller ID came to our area, I thought my therapeutic 'asshole'calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi, this is John Smith from the Telephone Company. I'm just calling to see if you're familiar with the Caller ID program?"
He yelled, "NO!" and slammed the phone down.
I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're an asshole!"
One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for.. I hit the horn and yelled that I had been waiting for that spot. The idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his car window. .. so, I wrote down his number.
A couple of days later, right after calling the first asshole (I had his number on speed dial), I thought I had better call the BMW asshole, too. I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?"
"Yes, it is."
Can you tell me where I can see it?"
"Yes, I live at 1802 West 34th Street. It's a yellow house, and the car's parked right out in front."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"My name is Don Hansen," he said.
"When's a good time to catch you, Don?"
"I'm home every evening after five."
"Listen, Don, can I tell you something?"
"Don, you're an asshole."
Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two assholes to call. But after several months of calling them, it wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be.
So, I came up with an idea. I called Asshole #1.
"You're an asshole!" (But I didn't hang up.)
"Are you still there?" he asked.
"Stop calling me," he screamed.
"Make me," I said.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Don Hansen.."
"Yeah? Where do you live?"
"Asshole, I live at 1802 West 34th Street, a yellow house, with a black Beamer parked in front."
He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers."
I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, asshole."
Then I called Asshole #2.
"Hello?" he said.
"Hello, asshole," I said.
He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are...!"
"You'll what?" I said.
"I'll kick your ass," he exclaimed.
I answered, "Well, asshole, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now."
Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at
1802 West 34th Street, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover.
Now, Im pretty convinced this is not a true story, even though I want it to be. I really want it to be. So now, I'm left wondering, what sort of person are you Jon? What sort of person makes up stories and passes them off as their own life experiences? Well, obviously the sort of person WHO PISSES ME OFF, YOU BASTARD



Like my bike? Yeah, that's right, some cheeky fucker has nicked it. (Could it be that the tosser who nicked the bike caps came back for the rest?) Well, you should know one thing, you thieving bastard - I have now taken to renting all the Death Wish films for research purposes. Plus dipshit, YOU'VE FUCKED ME OFF (SO, SO FUCKING MUCH) YOU CUNT


I'm not a fan of the countryside. It's okay to visit, for a few days, 5 at tops. But let's be honest, anymore and you might as well read the Daily Mail, hate all dark-skinned people (asylum-seeking, job-stealing dole-draining, bomb-making terrorist gypsy types) and believe that the master-race wears brogues, cords and barbours.

Well, you know what, arseholes, if it were such a great place we'd all move there, but we don't, most of us live in cities. Just check out the figures, More of us live in one tower block than one of your counties - so you work it out. And why? Because we love knowing we can go and get fresh coriander at 3am for one (Even though we never do), And we enjoy the food, company and cultures of those people of a different creed or colour.

If you haven't guessed, it's not the nature bit I don't like, God's contribution is fine with me. No, it's the fucking people.

When people from the city came down and told them to rip out the hedges and kill off the wildlife and spray the land with poisons and abuse their live stock they nodded their big, blotchy, red faces, took the subsidies and went down t' pub to drink some disgusting cloudy cow piss out of personalised tankards.

But when people from the city came down and told them to stop killing animals for pleasure what happens? They band together, they lobby government, they seek coverage in the media, they unite, they rebel.

It's because your priorities are so fucked that you should know, cuntry folk, that YOU PISS ME OFF, YOU STUPID BASTARDS.

PS. You don't even own the land, you lease it from your children, that's how stupid you are.


I appreciate it's a crap job. I appreciate there's no career path. I appreciate that you're bored. I appreciate you're really an educated student and that you need some cash to carry on with your studies and most people in the street treat you like shit.

But what I don't appreciate is you practically shoving a card in my pocket. Trust me when I say I do not want to learn to speak English and for that and that reason alone YOU PISSED ME OFF YOU BASTARD.


Despite a huge increase in the number of mopeds and motorbikes in the centre of London since the introduction of the congestion charge, the smart people in Gerkin Towers (city hall by any other name) have not thought it necessary to increase the number of bike bays. Bastards. So it really doesn't help when you find your nearest bike bay full up with a huge arsehole. Is it really surprising YOU PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARD.


Me meme (see what I did there, websters?)

Look, before you start reading this, let's be clear about something. This is your doing. No less than three of you have tagged me to do this (Kate, Marcus and his cowardly mate, Gavin). Well Gavin was going to but settled for goading his big mate, Marcus into doing it instead. What was I meant to do? Ignore them? What! with my ego? Are you kidding?

So, here's where I tell you five things you don't know about me. (Like you know a lot about me already.) Kate? Marcus? Gavin? You didn't really think this through now did you?

  1. I was once very good at Judo. In fact, I was a schoolboy international, Okay, so I was mainly in the reserves, but I did get to fight once. Against Germany. I only managed a draw.
  2. I once made a feature film. It won several awards around the world and is still shown on Australian TV. It was released in England in 2001 on 3 screens in London's West End. I think 37 people saw it. All family members.
  3. I have been very, very fortunate in love. Thank you Alison
  4. I once stole a policeman's cap. Boasted about it to his ex-partner on the force (who was now a bouncer in a night club), got grassed up by said bouncer, arrested and finally dumped in the middle of a field in Bognor, at 3 in the morning.
  5. I love chillies. I mean, I really love them. I also love the irony that God made them hot so we'd spit them out, but instead we eat them because they're hot. Ha ha, big man.
Now that I've done this I get to tag fve more bloggers to do the same. I don't feel bad about this because they have all, at some time or other PISSED ME OFF, THE BASTARDS

Martin, for being funnier than me
Stefan for being more gifted than the whole of me
Kirsty for having a better idea for a blog than me
Russell for having more energy than 14 mes. (Plus I really want to see who he sends it on to.)
PJ for..., well, hes never pissed me off. He was picked by the hand of fate, as he was just the next site to appear when I pressed the Next Blog Button up at the top, and I thought it interesting to see what would happen and whether there is a real blogging community.



I hate you. Seriously, I really hate you. Please don't misunderstand me, I. FUCKING. HATE. YOU! I hate so much about you. It's why your ring tone is
Kelis' I Hate You So Much Right Now.

I hate the way you turn yourself off for no reason. I hate the fact you tell me I have a message when I don't, and then refuse to remove that silly icon at the top. I hate that your touch-screen is unreadable on even a partially sunny day. Partially! For fuck sake!

I hate the fact I can't change the picture on your screen anymore. I hate you for cutting off my calls for no reason. I hate you for ringing other people in the middle of my conversations. I hate that your stupid little pencily thing falls out easily and is impossible to buy anywhere other than on eBay. I hate that I can't change you until April. I hate the fact your menu is only intuitive to
Stephen Hawking. I hate that you've stopped telling me when texts arrive.

I hate that sometimes, when it suits you, you selfish bastard, you can't be bothered to ring and so calls go straight to the answerphone. And then I think, is that a message or are you lying again? I hate that you're not compatible with Apples. And let me tell you something, you're not a real computer. You're not even a real phone. In fact, you PISS ME OFF, IN SO, SO MANY WAYS, YOU BASTARD.


Saw this on Sunday in a colour suppliment. No idea why I read it, but read it I did. (Probably something to do with that crazy interest rate) Anyway it goes, blah, blah, blah, blah blah, blah outrageous assumption, weak joke, blah, blah logo.

What got me is the fucking assumption 'I should be able to stretch to it' Do they know my bank balance? Do they know my income? My outgoings? My commitments? My preference? No, beardy jumper boy employee, you don't.

Oh and let me tell you something about this punny line, it's lacking the funny bit. Not that I really care because you've already PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARD.


I've just been invited to a wedding. I want to tell you their names, give you their mobile numbers and their email addresses, but I can't, because I don't have many friends.

Like all weddings, this one came with a list. Like most wedding lists it revealed how fucking greedy people can be.

This couple are doing all right, they'd have been called yuppies in a previous decade. And yet, despite living together for a few good years now have still managed to put together a list of stuff you would not believe. Stuff like a fish kettle. (If you don't know what one of these are, that's one up there in the picture.)

And to make it worse, this couple reheat, defrost, order-in or go-out. What they don't do is cook. But seeing as they're not paying, and seeing as they have everything they could want they stick a fish kettle on their wedding list, because, and only because, they don't have one. Well, YOU PISSED ME OFF, YOU GREEDY BASTARDS.


What a wanker. I once knew this guy (no, not Tim Westwood) and he use to boast, I'm a racist when It comes to music. I only like black musicians.

Oh, really? I am impressed. So you're happy to dismiss a whole chunk of music simply because of the colour of the people playing it? As I said, what a wanker.

Sure you can love opera and hate hip-hop, or refuse to whoop and holler to country & western, yet clap enthusiastically to classical. But that wasn't what this dickhead was saying. No, for him, as long as the singer was black, the music was great.

So, that meant a massive thumbs up to Boney M and MC Hammer and Five and So Solid Crew and Johnny Mathis and The Three Degrees but an equally massive thumbs down to The Beatles and REM and The Clash and Mozart and Radiohead and Johnny Cash and David Bowie and U2 and Elvis and and The Beach Boys and Yes and Frank Sinatra and Matt Monro and The Verve on and on and on and on.. and just because they're white.

Now, of course what he was really saying was that he was so insecure he couldn't afford to admit to liking anything that might even remotely be thought of as uncool (and as any white middle-class boy will tell you, black is cool).

I believe great music comes from the heart be it black or white and that is why, YOU PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARD


I had some time to kill So I thought, 'Hmmm, coffee'. And off I went to Carluccios, Ealing branch, opposite the green. Sipping said coffee I had another thought, Hmmm, I wonder if i can get online here.

I got out my Mac and it searched for wifi. And what do you know, Carluccios has it. I asked the waitress if I could have the password, thinking they didn't want just anybody using their Internet access, but she said, "Nope, can't have it". Apparently it's not for the likes of us paying customers either. Which, while begging the question who uses it then, does explain why YOU PISS ME OFF, YOU BASTARDS.


Some books seem to me to be better without them. Like cookery books. Like the one above. But this post isn't about cookery books or dust covers, it's about the hardcover underneath.

Say, like me, you've made the decision to remove the cover, what do you find? I'll tell you, you find the same sodding picture as the one you've just taken off - only now you can't remove it.
Oh, sorry, you mean you didn't want our photo cover? WELL TOUGH SHIT, live with it

If I wanted the picture I'd have kept the dust cover on, wouldn't I? But I didn't. It was because I wanted a plain cover. Any colour, I don't care about the colour, I just want a plain cover. Is that really too much to ask? It's publishers like this that REALLY PISS ME OFF, YOU BASTARDS.


There use to be a time when people were content to just throw their rubbish on the street. Them were the good old days, my friends. Now, they try and shove it through your letterbox. Thompson Local, you PISSED ME OFF YOU BASTARDS




picture pinched from the straufenbeger blog, thank you.


Got this is the post today. Well, I didn't, it was addressed to my 4 year old son, but he's only 4 and can't read, so I opened it. It's a brochure for cashmere tops and cashmere leggings and cashmere scarfs and cashmere hats and cashmere stuff, oh and a free cashmere rabbit if you spend over £100.

Now, let me repeat that again.

My 4 year old son got sent a brochure for expensive cashmere clothing. They seem to think that he might want to spend over £100 on such items and that the offer of a cashmere toy will close the deal.

Well, Boutique Enfant, let me put you straight on one or two things. He doesn't get that much pocket money and he's not interested in your expensive clothes, not least because they don't have spiderman knitted on them. So all you've managed to do is PISS OFF HIS DAD, YOU BASTARDS


These here are the wheels of my bike. Front and back. And if you look carefully you'll no doubt notice they're sans dust caps. That's because some toe-rag, hoodie type with dreams of being a master criminal took it upon himself to steal them.

And the really pathetic bit, the bit that makes me pity him for the life he'll live and waste, is, if you go into pretty much any bike shop they'll just give you a couple free. You don't need to steal them, you arse, you didn't have to PISS ME OFF YOU CHAVVY BASTARD.


Ordered the above book from Amazon the other week and it was delivered today in this state. Now, I've used Amazon for ages, so I know they'll change it with no hassle. The trouble is the hassle was already happened.

I got excited at my new package, only to be pissed off. Now I've got to print off the free postage sticker from Amazon,
Find an envelope. Find another one that the book will fit in. Find some glue stick the labell to it. Go to the post office. Wait anohter week or so.

And all because some bastard didn't pull, or got cut up on the way to work, or was bollocked by their boss or something and so decided to take it out on my book.

Actually you know what really pisses me off? It's the fact you couldn't damage a book to this extent without noticing and yet the bastard still packed it. So did
the moron who packed this really think I wouldn't notice, or wouldn't care? For that reason alone YOU REALLY PISSED ME OFF YOU SLOPPY, LAZY BASTARD.

*By the way I know it wasn't the post office this time, as the packaging was fine. But give them time, they'll soon appear here



Is there really any point in me saying anything? Other than, YOU PISS ME OFF YOU IGNORANT BASTARD.


Obvious, yes. But no less fucking annoying for it.

I've never bothered to read these before, but today I did. I know it's meant for dumbass Americans (Yes! You Georgie-boy). And I know there's plenty of them about, but how many of them are this dumb? (Okay Georgie-boy, other than you?).

A complete stranger writes to tell you, and this is a direct quote, I kid you not:
Don't you challenge take your eyes off this morning.
When this St0ck moves... LOOK OUT!...

Stock sign: FCTOA.OB
Corporation name: FACT CORP
Present cost: 0.76
1 year cost increase: 500%
1 month price increase: 145%
5 day cost increase: 59%
This is perfect stock symbol to double or triple your saving. It is just a peace of cake for each investors.
Check the stock history on Nasdaq and you won't have any suspicions about that stock.
Compelling, I'm sure you'll agree. So now all they need do is pick few well-chosen words to close the deal. And these are the ones they picked:
Apparently, whatever they are, they drive really safely! The horse was reported to have suffered a hoof injury yesterday. From Earth's vantage point, only Mercury and Venus transit the Sun, because these are the only planets inside Earth's orbit.
Really gets you reaching for the phone to sell your google shares, doesn't it. Well, you know what, YOU ARE REALLY PISSING ME OFF, YOU BASTARDS


I've been laid low, so not much has pissed me off other than fucking germs, actually there was a commercial, but I wanna get a shot of it before entering it here. Anyways, shopping for stuff I don't need I came across this t-shirt from a great company called, Howies.

It's a lovely warm feeling when you know you're not alone at being PISSED OFF BY BASTARDS.



I've just started a business and so needed to open a bank account. One of the easier tasks, or so I thought and off I went to NatWest. Why? Cos I've had an account with them for nearly 20 years now and everyone said it was easiest to do with a bank who know you.

So, off I go looking to book an appointment. Certainly, they say, Rapinder, our new business account guru, will call you this afternoon. Did she? Go on, have a guess. You're fucking right. Next day she calls, we book an appointment. I turn up. She doesn't show. But now I've got her number so I call her, she apologises and tells me she can't do the next day but Nadia can and she's every bit as much a new business account guru. So we agree on a time and Rapinder says she will pass on the details. I turn up. Nadia doesn't.

Well done NatWest for consistency.

I call Rapinder, I get her answerphone. For 5 days I call her. By day 2 I didn't actually want to talk directly to her, but I figured she would find it annoying, not as annoying as turning up for appointments with people who don't, but you have to work with what you've got. I now just wanted her to pass on my number to her boss and get him to call me. Of course I never got a reply. Just her answerphone. So I went else where. And if you're in the market for a business account I suggest you go else where too, because Rapinder and Natwest are BASTARDS WHO REALLY PISSED ME OFF


There I was visiting a bookshop just to look and touch the books really I know it makes odd but I find the whole experience so much nicer than looking at jpegs of the covers and knowing that some prat in Texas only thinks it's worth 3 stars because of the lead character doesn't wear a stetson, or something equally stupid. Plus, and this is a big reason I like bookshops over the online experience is that I enjoy the exploring and discovering aspects, trouble is you find shit like this. I mean I can understand 101 places to visit, I can just about get my head around 101 dishes to eat, but this! Whoever came up with this idea is a BASTARD, who really PISSED ME OFF



Explaining what this blog was about to the lovely Rebecca today, she said can I recommend something. What! I'm taking requests now? Do I look like a fucking DJ? But then she said, people with umbrellas in London and went on to say they should have to pass a test, or get a license or something and I had to agree, she was fucking right on the money. So, here it is, the first and probably only guest entry, you fuckers who insist on walking down the street sticking the little nobbily ends of your umbrellas into innocent passersby, YOU PISS ME OFF, YOU BASTARDS


I wasn't sure whether or not I should post this one, after all keys are an inanimate object (or should that be inanimate objects?), but fuck it, if I wasn't pissed off with them, I'd have to be pissed off with me and that would never do.

For the last 48 hours I've been without these, as they lay hidden under a pile of papers on my desk, causing me untold grief and stress. Well, you know what? YOU PISSED ME OFF, YOU LITTLE BASTARDS. Although it was lovely to find you again.


Just spend a moment to read what this arse writes on his card, If your bike needs a service and you don't have time to go to the garage We will come to you...

Not sure why that warrants dot dot dot after it, but there you have it.

Anyway. What I love about this is that Porto Scooter Services recognise that there are those people for whom time is scarce and that these are the people they have created a service for. So, why the fuck then do they agree to meet people at 3.10pm only to not turn up at 3.10pm. And to then not answer a constantly ringing phone. And to then call me at 4.20pm to say they are just coming into the street. When they're fucking not. Why? Tell! Well, do you know what, YOU PISSED ME OFF, YOU BASTARDS.


When I was growing up, and it wasn't that long ago, parks and pushbikes went rather well together, after all it made a lot of sense, there were no cars, the grass was soft and so it was generally thought of as a safe place to cycle, but that was a different time. Now we live in a city that would rather use the limited police it has to spring traps on unsuspecting cyclists at 7am and mug them , after all there's a £30 fine to be dished out. The perfect crime. Well, you know what, YOU BASTARDS PISS ME OFF. Oh and you, you on the right. YES, that is you in the picture, and YES I've published it and NO, I didn't seek the permission of the Royal Parks Junta first. So, whatcha gonna do about it?


I reckon that somewhere deep in the bowels of Westminster Council there is an office where dark thoughts are allowed to be voiced in the name of extortion. Let's call them the Committee for Extortion. I know it's not a clever title, but where's the profit in spending time on committee names? Time is best spent working on ways to rip off the general public. And this ladies and gentlemen is their latest scheme. Suspend a motorcycle bay, but put the suspension notice on a lamppost thirty or so feet away.

That's what 10-12 parking tickets? It's a license to print money that's what it is. Every bike in the bay got a ticket, including mine. Well, you know what, YOU BASTARDS PISSED ME OFF


I ride around London on a bike a lot of the time and if I'm not careful I could fill pages and pages of this blog with road incidents, but I try and restrain myself (both here and on the road). But this arrogant prat, who is obviously colour blind, after all why would you buy a car in that colour, thought nothing of whizzing around speaking into his phone and cutting up cyclists. Unfortunately, such is your love for speed, little boy racer, that I was unable to catch up with you and tell you in person that YOU'RE A FUCKING BASTARD, WHO PISSED ME OFF.


Dear Sir

I dare say that driving around London all day having to stop for people who then don't have the right money can be grating. What with road works and pollution and the general state of our roads it can't be an easy. And when it's summer and there are tourists to deal with, well that can only lead to bad moods.

But aiming your bus at cyclists isn't the answer. In fact it's a fucking dangerous and stupid thing to do, which is why, said cyclists will tap on your window and shout, YOU BASTARD. It's because YOU PISS THEM OFF.


It was raining, not that that bothers me, I like the rain, it suits London. Anyway I didn't have an umbrella so I was sheltering in a shop doorway when I noticed PC Happy. He was standing in the middle of Shaftesbury Avenue directing traffic away from a march that was coming down Piccadilly. He hates his job. His best remark was saved for a white van driver who asked politely, yeah surprised me too, how best he could still get to Victoria. The reply: 'I am not here to give directions, now move.' I'll overlook the fact that pointing at a street and barking, move is a fair approximation of giving directions, but what I won't overlook is the fact that coppers are there to serve the public, we after all do pay their salaries, and not to police us. Which is why you, PC BASTARD, PISSED ME OFF