Last week we posed for some press shots. Right old ruddy laugh t’was. Arf, arf.

On another note – RAWK:

Speak soon.


A Quincy.

True Story.

I was recently reminded of a fascinating tale involving Quincy Jones, the legendary record producer. The story starts with Quincy attending a high society dinner party. It reached the time in the evening where he had to excuse himself to use the host’s lavatory. After some time had passed — without a word to the host or any other guests — Quincy left the lavatory and walked straight out of the front door and down the driveway.

Taking the 'Quincy'

Five or ten minutes later the doorbell rang and the host opened the door to find Quincy’s butler standing in front of him with a toilet plunger in one hand. The butler introduced himself and explained that he had arrived to unblock the toilet. He made his way to the lavatory and went about his business before leaving the party. Neither the butler nor Quincy were to return.

From this day onwards, when you block a toilet with a huge poo, please be informed that this is called a ‘Quincy’. I recently did a ‘Quincy’ myself. I really wish I had a butler with a plunger though.

Much Love,


My first Scientologist.


Today a scientologist asked me if I was stressed. “No” I said taking a large drag from my cigarette and weeing a little in trepidation.

He asked if I wanted to be rid of all my stresses, worries and possibly shortcomings. I said that would be awesome in the most sincere tone I could muster.

He said he would I like to come to a meeting. I politely declined. Then he asked me what my sins are. What a question. So I told him I wasn’t confortable disclosing such personal information baring in mind we’d only just met. So thanked him for his time and wandered off.

He did get my phone number off me though so I’m sure to be getting some pretty interesting calls. I’ll pretend he’s an admirer calling me to hook up. That’ll learn him. Pushy cunt.

Much Love,

T x

An Unusually Proportioned Lady

When travelling on London Underground during rush hour you are lucky if you escape the bleating of an irate driver as the train judders painfully from station to station: “Please do not lean on the doors”, “If you lean on the doors I will take this train out of service” and “Leaning on the doors causes the brakes to be applied automatically” or words to that effect.

Last night an unusually proportioned lady hopped on the same District Line carriage as me and, much to the disapproval of other crabbed commuters, stood at the door poised to leap out and sprint as if she was being chased by Jon Venables. As we screamed through the tunnel  the driver took great delight in slamming on the brakes, sending the unusually proportioned lady flying comically sideways. In a desperate attempt to hold onto pole position she clung onto the door like Spiderman, sliding it a good foot open in the process. Instead of sliding the door closed, like most safety conscious gentlemen would, the predominantly male passengers threw the unusually proportioned lady even more disapproving looks before she herself eventually slid the door back into position.

What worried me most about this incident was not that the train kept rocketing on, door open or not, until we reached the next station. It was not the fact that London commuters are more interested in smug self-righteousness than in travelling safely to and from their shitty jobs. What alarmed me the most was the thought that maybe, just maybe, those bastard drivers are lying to us about the effect that leaning on doors has on the trains’ braking systems, just to make our miserable journeys that little bit more wretched.


Scheiße Fan Makes a Deposit

This week the HSBC branch near my office shut down. It’s a right pain in the arse because it means I now have to trek it a full 5 minutes (5 minutes!) further down the road to Tesco to get cash out.

Fortunately, upon discovering this, I managed to contain myself a little more easily than one particularly disgruntled customer who carefully dispatched a steaming log on the branch’s cash machine keypad. I assume there was some symbolic reason behind this gesture.

I can’t help but imagine what the scene may have been like.

“A little going away present Mr H. S. B. C.! Congratulations!”


Out with the old….

I’m going to Canada on the 24th and on Wednesday I realised I’ve only got 2 months left on my passport, someone told me that you have to have 6 months on there to get into, and out of, the country.


What fucks me off is that it’s nigh on impossible to find out whether or not that’s true, I called the Canadian embassy, the Canadian something else, I called the Airline and I even called the helpline that comes up at the top of google when you type in anything about British passports. Which, by the way, is not a helpline, it’s a £1.50 a minute recording of a man reading some rules. Luckily I called that one from work. In the end, I Looked it up and found out that if you don’t want to take a day off work to go and sit in a queue in Victoria it normally takes about three weeks from sending off your old one to get your new passport. At this point my pants became almost pure brown.

Eventually I stumbled upon the fact that at some post offices you can take your forms in and they’ll check and stamp them and all that shit for you and then send them off, that shaves a week off the expected return date. So I went for that option.

Now, I don’t know about you, but when I have to fill in an “important” form for anything, the walls close in, panic sets in, writing becomes a lot harder and not making a mistake in my surname becomes quantum physics. With the passport application this is tenfold. You have to cram your black ball point pen written capital letters into tiny boxes and if any of them touch the sides of the box (the @ in my email address had me sweating buckets) your application will be rejected by those smug, power crazed bastards. Add to the pressure of this my time constraints and I apparently become an illiterate moron, incapable of remembering my own address.

My first attempt at the form went well, I made it all the way to the end with the concentration of a thrown in at the deep end bomb disposal intern, whacked my signature in the box with a semi confident flourish and then wrote my date of birth in the date box instead of the actual date. The last thing on the form. Bollocks.

I struggled through take two alright and my old passport is winging it’s way to the dusty old dinosaurs at the passport office, along with some mug shots of me looking like a murderer. Please let me have a new one sirs, I’m not a terrorist.