Hope Still Waits In The Wings

Here is what I propose: there is a "What Every Woman Wants" of hatred.

Woah, hold on there. Get your mouse off that next blog button and give me a moment to explain myself. I don't just mean that I hate Mel Gibson's shitty movies (although you can take that for granted). I mean that there is a state of mind, a supernatural insight perhaps, that allows the habitual hater to see, or at least hear, the true sickening nature of the hatee. Underneath all the vapid bullshit and seemingly innocuous small talk that the average Joe Reasonable wouldn't think twice about, there are motherfucking demons.

Sounds crazy, huh? Maybe. But, as the Soulless Rejects might have it, peep dis:

Tonight, as I journeyed through the dark underbelly of this cursed city, coccooned in a filthy metal phallus... Wait, wait! Okay, so I was on the tube and shit. Two entirely regular looking city gents stood nearby, making polite chit-chat about their crappy new musical purchases. Gent No. 1 was schilling for The Killers (or The Whoever-it-is-these-days) with a spiel that sounded suspiciously like something he'd committed to memory from the blurb on the back of a Daily Mail cover-mounted CD.

"Yeah yeah, they're great, yeah, it's like if Duran Duran went on a massive bender with MC5, yeah...", and OH THANK FUCK for the sorry state of the London Underground, for at this crucial juncture a huge ear-piecing shriek peeled off the tracks and filled the carriage - an ugly noise for sure, but a sound far sweeter to my ears than the tedious jaw-flappery of these two lifeless cuntsocks. It couldn't last, of course, not even on the Northern Line, and as the relatively graceful music of angry grinding iron faded out, the gas-bagging of our two gents wafted inevitably back towards my hapless earholes.

"...slipping on a miserable rotting condom".

What the? Excuse me? Is this it? Have I broken through to the other side or what? Brothers, I believe I have! I believe I am the Keanu Reeves of hatred! I believe that with my new skills I can forge a new life for all of us - a better life where our children shall be free from the tyranny of arseholes, free from the vapours of cockspeak and, most of all, free from hate.

I believe... I... I believe I need some fucking sleep.

Clown-faced Man has Book, Clothes to Sell

Well, gee whiz, I ought to just hand the username and password to this blog over to Boy George immediately. He’s a funny motherfucker, check it out: “Westlife – I call them No Life”. Why, that’s comedy gold, Boy. I shall purchase your marvellous products forthwith.

Who else don’t you like? Rosie O’Donnell? A “tank of a woman”, you say? Gosh, I guess she is kind of fat! I hadn’t thought of it that way before. Who’s next? Which of our precious cultural icons will you skewer next with your razor-sharp barbs? Janet Street-Porter? She belongs in the jungle, you say! Cripes!

Tony Blair and George Bush? But everybody loves those guys, Boy! Good lord, is no one safe? Oh I do wish you would say something else outrageous. I have my credit card ready and everything!

You know who else you should take a pop at? Ageing, self-absorbed grotesques who spout tedious, witless, so-called “controversial” criticisms of soft and safe targets in a transparently lame attempt to generate publicity for their latest shameless vanity project. Those guys are the fucking absolute pits and I wish them all years – nay, decades! - of agonising bowel cancer, every last one of them. Fucking soulless, bottom feeding scum. Ain’t that right, George?

George? Hello?

...And John Kennedy Toole Killed Himself

This morning I had a terrible feeling that I was softening.

On the escalator at the notorious King’s Cross there was a bunch of guys chatting and, criminally, standing on the left. “Fucks” I thought. “Ignorant fucks”

This lady came up behind them with a look on her face like one of these guys just farted in her eye. “When they realise how irresponsible and stupid they are they feel cheap and ugly” I thought.

“Oh, excuse me, excuse me” said one of the extremely affable, former enemies, and stepped out of the way. The lady said nothing and continued up the escalator.

“Sorry” said the guy as she passed.

But then something happened. A poster for Marian Keyes’ new book, “The Other Side of the Story”.

It wasn’t the book. If some drooling Harry Potterite wants to read that chick lit twaddle, fire away. It was the poster.

GIRLS! it said.

In pink.

CHOOSE SOMEONE WHO WILL NEVER LET YOU DOWN IN BED!

I thought about smashing the back of my head into the tiled wall of the station and howling like a torn sheep. Then thought the better of it. Inside my pockets, though, I made fists and I closed my eyes and concentrated on holding it together.

Does my rage require an explanation on this one? I don't think so.

Either way, there's no softening when cunts like the marketeers at Penguin still roam free.

Next time: Gilette and how much fun a girl can have shaving with a pink razor

Tube Rules pt 2

9. If I'm sitting on a seat and my arms are on the arm rests, do not, I repeat DO NOT try and wrestle me off the rests by slyly resting your arm next to mine in the vein hope that eventually you will push my elbows off the rests. Brother, it aint gonna happen, cos now I know your game and it IS a battle of wills. I will turn and look at you with a "what the fuck do you think you are doing" look on my face and then smirk at you with a "I can't believe you're actually gonna try it" smirk on my face.

DONT even try the old "push his elbows off from behind" trick, by snuggling your elbows at the back of the rest and let the g-force of the train accidentally push my elbows off, cos you know I will just rest them back on and now with extra vigour.

If you still try, I must warn you that I may have to accidentally kick your long gangly legs that are taking up the whole of the gang way when I walk off the train....(What do you expect me to do, jump over them?)...you have been warned.

10. "Simon says...get the fuck up". per Pharoahe Monch, circa 2000
Just cos you think you're pretty, bitch doesnt mean you cant get up if there's an elderly person on the fucking train! Get the fuck up for the people, at least way you can make up for being a bitch. Let's hope that when you're pregnant with some 3rd division footballer-wannabe's baby, someone as decent as you will have the courtesy to get the fuck up! Karma charmeleon!

When Monkeys Ruled The Earth

Not wanting to harp on about my morning journeys, but we need to discuss Tube etiquette. Ok, my manners are clearly up my hole. I call people names and have no regard for the feelings of anyone but myself. I admit that. In fact, I am proud of it and I applaud anyone else whose behaviour is similar to mine.

Tube etiquette, however, needs to be discussed, because it is not so much an issue of manners and intelligence. That which sets some of us apart from the slackjaws and knuckledraggers. I have therefore devised a seven point plan for successful Tubery.

1. When they say “please let customers off the train first” this is not to be polite. This is because the laws of physics dictate that two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

2. When they ask you to please use all available space, point 1 applies. Christ almighty, pay attention.

3. Please have your ticket ready before you get to the ticket barrier. You know you’re going to need it. You fucking know you are approaching a big fuck-off machine that won’t let you through without the little card you’ve let slip to the bottom of your fucking Louis Vuitton purse you cow. Get it out or I will stand behind you and make fists and sweat!

4. When the train carriage is crammed and you want to get off, please realise that there are people coming from the opposite direction trying to get off too. There is no fire. You will be able to disembark eventually. The person you are asking to move cannot. Please calm down. Please just…fucking, will you wait you fuck there’s some guy trying to get past on my other fucking side, and you’re fatter than he is so he goes first…FUCK OFF!

5. If you are near the door and there is a packed carriage, please step out to allow people off and then embark again. This is very simple. People cannot leave the train with you in the way. Please see points 1 and 2. Point 4 refers to those occasions when you are stuck near the centre pole under some fat fuck’s armpit.

6. Make a fucking decision for the love of sanity. When stepping onto the platform, arriving at the top of the stairs, the bottom of the stairs, the top or bottom of escalators, stepping out of elevators, passing ticket machines, entering or leaving the station. Make a goddamned decision. Too many of you find yourself in one of those scenarios and stand there waiting for your bubbly brains to tick over and tell you where it is you need to go. If it’s going to take a while you fucking slug, get the fuck over to the wall and manipulate your thought over there. Then I can pass by safely without internal bleeding or ulceration.

7. When your ticket doesn’t work, looking at it does not help. Ever. If it does not work, simply go over to the bloke in the Blue jacket and ask him to let you by. Do not for fuck sake stand there, drooling and looking at it. Do not, under any circumstances, run the ticket through the machine again. Do not frown, do not tut, just fuck off.

Happy Trails

Feel free to add to my seven point plan. Eight point, thirteen point? I'm easy.

Hatin' Through the Ages

...I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me: no, nor woman neither...

And you know what? I fucking hate Shakespeare.

I particularly hate modern takes on Shakespeare. Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet should be balled up, stuck in a cannon and shot up his arse. Kenneth Branagh should have all four hours of 65mm film from his epic Hamlet stapled to the insides of his eyelids. The screenplay for 1995's Richard III should be rolled tight and used to beat Ian McKellen to death. And that new Levi’s ad should be shoved down Mel Gibson’s pants and burned. Like I said, I'm no fan, but seeing, under writing credits:

"William Shakespeare and Sir Ian McKellan"

makes me fucking sick. Why? Because McKellen, Branagh, Luhrmann et al are fans. Fawning drooling masturbating fans. Cunts.

Still, Shakespeare really had it going there, if only for a second or two.

That's right, dude. You're a WANKER.

(Or: 5-7-5 Reprise)

Fred Durst's Little Wiener
By Snotty McShot

I would rather see
A hundred rabid baboons
Kick his fat cunt in

Excuse Me. No Smoking Please.

Heading home on the bus from the city centre last night, staring at the reflections in the front windows of the vacuous faces behind me. I see a huge fat guy who has clearly had too much to drink flop into a seat a few rows back on the opposite side. He's directly behind an African immigrant who's talking on a mobile phone. Well, he's clearly in an altered state, but I am surprised when he pulls out a cigarette lighter and proceeds to ignite the little elastics which operate the African's hood. I am staring wide eyed, unable to believe it. I mean, I hate those little pointless elastics too with their fiddly little buttons, but not enough to burn them off a stranger's jacket.

Just When I Thought I Was Out...

NnnnnnngggfffFUCK. I’m really trying here. I’m really trying to stand up and fly straight, I swear, but some of you motherfuckers aren’t making it easy at all. Imagine how I felt when I noticed that some goofy half-man had dropped his bags and squirted prozac-addled dysentery-shit all over a post I thought was dead. Lookee here:

Jesus Fucking Christ. Where to begin? In the spirit of the recent bipartisan accord I’m just going to fire a warning shot off the boughs, but even if I had been in full Snotty flow when I received this I still probably wouldn’t have a clue what to do with it.

It’s worth having a look at this, though. We’re talking about someone who logs into my gay ass blog and promptly spends an hour reading a 900-word post and a further fifteen minutes writing a comment about how it’s a waste of time to write comments on my gay ass blog. We’re talking about someone who gay-bashes HTML, for the love of fuck.

Adam, we’ve had words before (or at least you had words - I had sentences). It’s safe to say at this point that I do not understand you. As in: I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. If you want to salute Matt, why don’t you go and do it on his own goddamn blog, eh Pricey? Are you having some kind of "behind enemy lines" flashback or something? Don't answer that question because I do not care.

For the last time: this is a stupid fucking website about bullshit. There is NO issue of integrity or transparency here, because I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK WHAT YOU THINK ONE WAY OR THE OTHER. And hey, why don’t you let us all know where your own blog is at so we can go over there and make pronouncements on its sexuality? What's that you say? Yeah, I know already: BECAUSE IT IS 100% GUARANTEED TO SUCK BIG MONSTER FUCKING COCKS, that's why.

For fuck’s sake, man, fuckin... ugh. You’re lucky I'm feeling so motherfucking pleasant these days. Thanks for stopping by, and have a nice day.

Oh God

I just bought a Moroccan chicken salad to stave off this crippling hangover. There are raisins in it, hidden in the coriander infused cous-cous. They now look like a drift of dead flies up the side of the plastic bowl.

Bad Moon Rising

This morning Hugs O’Toole, formerly Snotty McShot, is feeling a little worse for wear. Worse than usual. Today, Matthew, I am Pukey Fitzfucked. I may ramble and babble and some drool may appear on the inside of your screen from time to time, as I have lost all sense of context and self-control, but do bear with me during these difficult times. It was Slint’s fault. We had a departmental outing last night to see Slint and to celebrate our new found love for the world and all its little bacteria. Even the ones in poo and on your eyeballs. This is not a royal “we” situation. I was in company. I’m sad and lonely, but I’m no asshole. When I suggested that…you know what? Mogwai are fucking awesome, thank god for CD players in computers and bosses who don’t care. That’s not what I suggested. When I suggested that a member of Slint looked like Willem Defoe in Spider-Man, I think because of the green lights and a stupid hat, I knew I was teetering on the precipice of a piss-cliff and no-one was holding my hand. I’ll get to my usual whatever in a minute although I doubt I have any hatred in me. God, what’s wrong with my fingers? So, I was pretty wobbly and I brushed off this guy at the gig. Usually this is followed by some tutting and a snarl, or in my case, nothing, but a howling of impotent rage inside and images of myself clawing at my own useless head and face. The guy turned around and said “Are you alright?” fucking sarcastic fucking fuckarse cu…“Can you see?” I almost hugged him. A beacon of humanity shining from all this hideous treachery and bile. I seem to remember a toilet attendant and standing spread legged at the toilet to avoid dipping my jeans in spilled acridity that ultimately must have failed because this morning they were solid at the ends. I think I had some kind of a rapture because of that lovely man. I skipped home listening to “Lookin’ out my back door” by Creedence, wine and beer and pasta swilling in my belly, churning into the sensation I hold right now but was spared at the time. I may have been…today there was a guy on the tube with a really stupid hair-do. Really really stupid. He was reading The Sun and the headline was Jacko V Basho and then a sub-heading “Pop king face to face with journalist", as if Jacko V Basho isn’t clear enough with their faces on there like gents involved in fisticuffs. Above that was a picture of a child and it said “This 12 year old lad, lad for fuck sake, what is this?, was killed by a drunk illegal immigrant”. In other words a poor brown man. “GUESS HOW LONG HE GOT!”. A week? Ten days tops. Eternal buggery in hell? And forks in his fingers and ketchup on his eyes? There’s a guy in The Mail, I noticed, I’m a noticer my mother once said, which doesn’t go down well sometimes, like when I told my sister her teeth were black, who’s a columnist and he has a really bad hair-do also. His name is Des Kelly. In Ireland there’s a carpet shop called Des Kelly. "Des Kelly, the carpet man"! the jingle goes. That gave Pukey a chuckle. Beside the man with the stupid hair, which was stupid because it had too much gel in it and was sticking out at funny and offensive angles and he was fat and he coughed and when he did his paper rattled and his cheeks flapped and I felt a breeze on my face, was a woman with breath that smelled like sour milk who wore Gucci sunglasses and her hair was bad too, like straw with paint spilled on it. Earlier, a couple dressed exactly the fucking same got on the train at Camden. Both wearing kakhi khaki cacky, whatever, waist length jackets and jeans and brown cowboy boots and both had trendy charity bracelets, but she had some fur trim on her jacket making it more girly. I’d imagine it was detachable and he had his fur trim in his pocket or something. I thought it was some kind of a test of my sanity and if so they were shit actors because they laughed and talked which no-one does on the tube, but then she left at Euston and kissed him and I knew it was real and I was trying not to vomit. At King’s Cross people got out of my way. At work I bought mints because I think the sour milk breath was mine. When I got off the train an hour late for work there was a poster for a new Bruce Willis movie called Hostage, which I’m sure is Die Hard but with him playing a hard as nails Dwayne T. Robinson or a muscular and white Al and the little description beside the rating said “contains strong language and violence”. The poster has Bruce holding a gun and screaming something, probably rude, and his hand is bandaged and bloody for fuck sake. Of course it contains violence and bad language. Otherwise what fucking use is it? On the Spongebob Squarepants movie it says “contains moderate peril”, nothing about sea creatures and jokes that are really a wink to the parents about sex and reality tv and arses and wine and on the Team America one it says “contains strong sex, violence and very strong language, all involving puppets”. On the poster there are strings coming out of their heads. A man stepped in front of me as I passed a shop that sells cheap phone cards and porn and sandwiches and he looked exactly like Michael Moore except he was thinner had no beard and someone from work called me but I was listening to some hippy bullshit by A Perfect Circle, so I couldn’t hear them, or rather chose to pretend I couldn’t because I obviously could. And I saw them too. My Sausage and Egg McMuffin made the same noise as that one that dude from Supersize Me bit into on his first day. Squelchy, with a hint of flobbiness and a certain hiss. Pretty tasty. I binned the hash brown because it was leaking oil and it looked like an orange turd and the coffee mixed with my sour milk breath was pretty uncomfortable in my mouth and I felt really queasy. The mints helped... you know those Polo mints? See the way they sell the holes from the Polos now? That’s fucking ridiculous. People pay 79p for that. I did anyway.

I think I see a bad moon risin’.

Which floor sir? Seventh circle of hell thanks

We're all packed into the lift this morning. Everybody holding their breath and clenching their arse cheeks just wishing for this hideous moment to be over. A fetid coffin reeking of smoke, sweat and coffee. A cheap motel compressed into a tiny cubicle. The tense silence is suddenly destroyed by a booming west coast American voice.
"You know what's funny? My boat has an 80 horsepower Perkins diesel with a…"

The Man Comes Around

Some of you may have noticed that this site has taken a fat one in the rectum of late, with all sorts of crazy shenanigans going on in the comments sections. You may even think these comments are quite flattering, but I warn you: do not be fooled. True, they all appear to say that I am very cool and funny, but closer examination reveals that what they are really saying is that I am neither cool nor funny. This is a message so chilling it is worth saying literally dozens of times under as many disturbing pseudonyms as possible.

And so I have to admit it: I screwed up. I shouldn’t have messed with Matt Lind, because he turned out to be the master of the most vicious attack dogs in cyberspace. Ladies and gentlemen, I have a newsflash for you: do not fool around with Matt Lind! Especially not if you don’t like people to leave loads of comments all over your blog.

But before anyone accuses me of being facetious, I would like to take a moment to extend the olive branch of peace. Matt: you and I, we just got off on the wrong foot. Sure, I called this blog the Department of Hate and I put you on it, but I don’t hate you. No, I just hate how people can take this whole blogging thing so seriously. I hate that the blogosphere has its head so far up its own arse that an admittedly puerile but otherwise harmless comment about wiping turds in my own eyes can result in appeals to deities an invocations of great historical atrocities. But I’m not blaming you for that, Matt, it’s just the culture we created. We are all to blame, and I will take my lumps like a man for this one too. I just took your post as an example of this phenomenon and for that I am sorry.

You’re not so bad, Matt. You’re passionate about what you do, you have a genuine thirst for knowledge and what’s more, you and I have a lot in common. No, really. We’re young, interested in the power of language and the life of the mind and, between you and me, we share more than a few opinions vis-a-vis the current US administration.

Also, you’ve brought my humble little patch of internet quite a bit of traffic over the last few days, from all over the globe. I’d like to thank you for that and, furthermore, I’d like to repay you in kind, if I may. Henceforth, I am linking to your site permanently, in a new section called “Friends of the Department”. I do hope I am not being too presumptuous.

But wait, that’s not all! Taking my queue from the sentiments you expressed in your latest post (with regard to having a sense of humour about oneself) I had the boys over in the Dept of L&U graphics team cook up a little something - my gift to you, absolutely free of charge. I would be honoured if you would consider using it as a promo for your own website.

Oh, but listen to me rambling on. I won’t make you wait any longer. Without further ado, folks, allow me to present my personal tribute to my favourite latin-teaching blogger and new internet friend:

Matt Lind.

No hard feelings, eh?