I was on my scooter on Tuesday evening, approaching a set of red traffic lights. A column of traffic stood waiting in the right-turn lane, and the straight-ahead/left-turn lane was empty, so I started to slow down and directed my trusty steed straight up the middle of that lane. Suddenly a car pulled out immediately in front of me, coming out from the right lane into the left, and bearing extremely close to me, so I braked, but the wet road made me start to skid on the wet road, towards the car. Everything went into “slo-mo”, like it always does in moments of high hecticity - or maybe, rather, my brain and reactions go into hyper-drive - so I jumped off the scooter and managed to land in a crouch, but still on my feet, while the bike dropped and landed on its side, inches from the car.

I stood full up and turned to start picking up the bike; the car had stopped, the window was wound down, and a teenager was gawping at me out of the passenger window, while the driver was leaning past him towards me and saying something. I thought that maybe it was “are you fine?”, but I couldn’t quite hear, so I raised the visor on my helmet and said “what?” She repeated, enunciating very clearly: “Are you blind? I was turning left!”

Un-fucking-believable cunt. It’s probably moot whether it was in any way my fault, as she did indicate, though I think only at the moment of turning — and the fact that she was pulling out of lane suggests to me that she should have waited for me to go past as I was going straight in lane. Thing is, regardless of whose fault it was, the fucking cunt had basically just run me off the road, and rather than check whether I was OK, like any normal human being would, she asked if I was blind, because I hadn’t known in advance that she wouldn’t look properly before pulling out in front of me! Fucking cunt.

I was so gobsmacked by her fucking brute idiocy that I just said “are you blind! You nearly knocked me over! Just get out of the way”, waved her along with as much contempt as I could muster (at that moment, contempt factor 37), gave her an extremely evil stare and drove off. Seconds later I had a momentary primal fantasy involving turning round, catching up with her and delivering a solid and well-deserved strike through the open window — but obviously civilisation got the better of me, I thought better of such behaviour, and carried on driving away.

But honestly, what a fucking cunt. Cunt.

Picture the scene: a Saturday morning, a few short hours’ kip after the last of the preceding Friday night’s revelries. A bleary taxi ride with some … interesting corners, and the National Express coach station hoves into view.

(Yes, we’re getting on a coach. A fucking coach. “No, Sir, there aren’t any trains to or from that destination on that route for the whole of the weekend, as there are planned engineering works. [Check me out, planned. Yes. As in ‘irrevocable law of nature’.] No, Sir, none on that route; there are trains going there, but you’ll have to change at fucking Lahore, and you’ll have to go on the stopping service via a shanty town outside Marrakech and the arse-end of Tbilisi. No, Sir, there are no discounts available, suggesting, I imagine, that they’re trying to discourage people from travelling that weekend.” No shit.)

So, a glance, askance, at the facilities. Some fuel is obviously necessary if I’m to get through the next couple of hours, surrounded by entirely uncontrolled screaming toddlers and shit-awful mobile ’phone ring-tones, without suffering severe internal stress; but what shall I find? Something healthy and rejuvenating, perhaps, a restorative gustatory tonic to assist with recovery, to couch against the upcoming onslaught of motorway madness? Some sushi, just some salad, hell, a <splutter> Pret prawn sandwich? Yep, sure. In a dog’s cock.

“OK, I’ll have <wince> an XL Bacon Double Cheeseburger. Yes, fizzy orange, please, the sugar’ll perk me up, I s’pose. No, no chips thanks, I … You what?”

“It’s cheaper with the chips, Sir. £5.43 without the chips, £5.29 with.”

Cheaper with the chips. Cheaper with the chips. It actually costs less money to have a pile of chips than not to have them.

And you, our burghers and leaders, town–, city– and nation–wide, have the staggering audacity to wonder why the place is filling up with bloated, malnourished, yet horrendously overweight shits with pasty faces, ADD, bad skin, bad hair and bad attitudes, forcing their pre-packaged pre-rendered excuses for musical taste into our ever-assailed ears, wherever we go, through whatever latest transistorised diversity-munging gadgets they've queued up to be “subsidised” with by pan-globally profligate product pimps whose sole intention is to keep them feeling sufficiently satisfied with their lots and remaining sufficiently disengaged by your offices from any real involvement with the mechanics of this fragile equilibrium of acquistiveness that they'll continue happily to play their crucial parts in maintaining this seemingly neverending cycle of shite?

I’ll tell you why it’s happening, you cunts - it’s because you cunts allow these untrammelled shitmongers to peddle such piss-poor wares as this “food”, this putrid, nutritionless, poisonous puke, these sweaty little packages of ultimately unsatisfying and ultimately unsatisfactory yet utterly immediate gratification, all over the communities you profess to protect, shamelessly lining them up for the next fix, while shoving laughably meagre percentages of their ill-gotten gains up your greasy arseholes in planning backhanders so that you evil scum can gobble up more of the ever-proliferating, pernicious, rancid turd these conglomerate charlatans stuff down your throats in the vague, dimly-conceived hope that it might raise your vile, egotistical excuses for existences above the level of material achievement that you’ve managed to keep those you ostensibly represent down to. That’s why it’s happening.

Since the weekend, I’ve spent the majority of my waking hours engaged in visiting a relative of mine currently conducting a sojourn at an NHS “trust” hospital. I’ve discovered, I feel obliged to announce, that the food in the canteen is nothing short of incomparable. As I’d thus far been surviving on decaf. coffee and slabs of Cadbury’s Bournville obtained from the League of Friends café near the ward concerned, your apprehension of the palpability of my delight on discovering the canteen early on Sunday evening will no doubt constitute a far from Herculean task. “Ah yes,” I thought, “some excellent scran shall surely ensue”. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay.

Upon close scrutiny, the menu revealed itself as a veritable cornucopœia of culinary conjuration. Though naturally my vexation at the prospect of narrowing such an array of gustatory marvels to a single selection was sore indeed, I cast aside trepidation and elected to consume a combination of roasted pork and potatoes, boiled carrots, peas and gravy. I have every confidence, dear Reader, that you'll formulate with little encouragement some realistic notion of the moistness of the carrots, the tenderness of the meat and the expertise with which said flesh had been filleted; not to mention how delicate the “pop” of the peas as they surrendered their savoury secrets, and under how gentle a pressure of the mere tips of my teeth.

For lunch the next day I chose a Beef Stroganoff soi-disant, accompanied by wild rice and salad. I’ll warrant that you’ll construct a similarly effortless comprehension of how creamy an affair was the sauce, and how appropriate the hint of spice; of how perfectly al dente was the rice, how spruce and crisp the salad.

Clearly, the inevitable conclusion from this tale must be that hospital food has evidently advanced by leaps and bounds in recent years? That to suggest, par exemple, “ill-governed” as a more fitting descriptor for the rice than “wild” would be somehow uncharitable?

IN A FUCKING DECOMPOSING LOBSTER’S STINKY GREEN PUTRID ARSEHOLE.

I’ll tell you what, most of the damn stuff is total, unadulterated shit.

WordPress? ShitPress.
Blogger? Shitter.
(I mean, I could go on.)

As for this particular bit, Serendipity? Well, it hasn’t pissed me off too badly so far. This is because it doesn’t look at first glance like it’s been designed or coded by a fucking gibbon with no hands and two arses. Maybe it’ll end up looking like that (’specially once I’ve had my fucking filthy claws all over it), but for now, let’s just say it hasn’t made me shed my horrible pukey filthy-green liver-slime yet.

Eating loads of lobsters makes my shits properly healthy. Seriously, the sort of thing you'd imagine some mungbean-munching alfalfa addict to produce. Maybe I should go on an all-lobster diet.

Actually, that’s quite a smart idea. Even setting aside the sheer, lustrous, crass opulence of the whole thing, it’d still be excellent. Imagine it:

Waiter: Would Sir like to see the menu?
Lobster: No thanks, I’d like some lobster please. I only eat lobster.
Waiter: I see. Excellent choice, Sir. How would Sir like the lobster prepared?
Lobster: Are you fucking shitting me?
Waiter: I’m sorry, Sir?
Lobster: Is your lobster fresh?
Waiter: I believe so, Sir.
Lobster: Well then I’ll have it boiled, won’t I?
Waiter: I expect so, Sir.

[Waiter skulks off to kitchen to piss into an old lobster carcass]

See? Fucking fantastic.