One Year On

It's exactly a year since my wife said her last words to me - she was in intensive care and sedated for the last three weeks of her life. Her last words were - "You did that on purpose, you bugger!"

Which is a lovely way to remember a remarkable woman.

We used to read poems to each other - here's a bit of doggerel.

Brian and Laura

What a fucking happy pair we were!
To sit, at night, with telly off-
Reading Wilfred Owen to each other.

For light relief some Sylvia Plath -
Never Ted, cause he's too dark.
Some Rupert Brooke - or Donne for those black days
When life cannot bring forth its spark.

And then again - there is John Cooper Clarke.

A New Take on the Peter Griffin Show

I was out drinking with some Jamaican mates yesterday afternoon, and one of them broached the Nick Griffin subject.

"Did you see that Nick Griffin thing last night? Fucking disgrace, man!"

"How you mean?" I said.

"They never gave the poor bastard a chance - man, I was looking forward to finding out what these people stand for."

So well done the BBC and the Righteous - if my experience is anything to go by your ill-judged and ill-conceived mugging of that other monocular moron has just gained him sympathy from the West Indian community.

We need to debate with the BNP, but not at the level of personal attacks in a lynch mob atmosphere against the inadequate twat that leads them. We need to agree when they are right, and to not only destroy their argument but also to laugh at them loudly when they are wrong. That's one way to defeat fascists - the only other way is the UAF way and my views on life would not sit happily there.

There - I've said my piece. I'm just horrified but not surprised that the way Griffin was handled has backfired so far - only the two ladies treated him with any dignity, so Fuck You, Straw, Huhne and Mr Partisan Dimblebollocks, and thanks for the unfair and personalised attacks that make a fascist get sympathy from West Indians you utter, utter cunts.

Poor bloody Dodger

One of my rats died on Friday night - not a big thing you may think, but the little buggers were my wife's pets and even though I didn't like them much they were my last tangible link to her.

I've kept them and fed them since she died, and to see little Artful Dodger dead in the cage yesterday morning really hurt - never again will he leap up to beg for food as soon as he hears my voice.

What a complete cunt life is sometimes.

FUCK!

You say it best...

Is it just me that feels awkward about the mawkish, almost Scousey farewells given to Stephen Gateley?

He might well have been a nice chap and a fine man to have a drink with, but he was also a queer, a drunk and a fan of the old marching powder.

That shit will kill you.

Sorry, Gateley fans, but he got what he asked for.

Queer twat.