Thursday, December 25, 2008

Merry Boxing Day


So it's over. It's all over for another year.


I'm delighted that it passed me by without any akward family arguments, forced smiles when I open a present I clearly don't like, pine needles stuck in my new socks, crackers and the hideous paper hats contained within, dusting the mince pie crumbs from my lap, hangovers laced with disgrace and self-loathing, going on walks in the cold just because it's Christmas, pretending to enjoy the company of the people I grew up with, drinking in a protestant cave with racists and slappers, my arteries feeling like vegetable oil runs through them and selection box-induced diabetes.


Today it is as far as it could possibly be from it happening again. That makes me smile like yesterday just couldn't. The weird thing about that is that Christmas tries to make you happy, it desperately wants to make you happy. Christmas fucking owes you. You spend hundreds of pounds trying to force happiness, with the food, the booze, the tree, the decorations, the cards, the stamps to send the cards, the presents, the gift paper, the ribbons, the little sticky card things you put on the presents and crackers. Boxing day just does it's thing, not trying to impress anyone. It doesn't want to make the 3rd of March or the 22nd of August, or any other random non-event day on the calendar, jealous like Christmas does. Christmas is a egotistical, self-centred wanker that wants the whole year to revolve around him. Boxing day leaves him to it and picks up the pieces.


And why do we succumb to this social farce? Because a religion you don't believe in says that it's saviour was born on this day 2008 years ago. Hmmmmm, let's instead just use the day to trying to get on with life, try to do the same things you would do any normal day, eat an ordinary, human amount of food, drink as much as you feel comfortable with, wear the jumper you want to wear and not the one that you're expected to wear because it was a gift and watch good TV, not force fed dribble with Q-list celebrites degrading themselves trying desperately to salvage a fame that faded away into the center fold of a magazine you can read at the dentists.


What I am trying to say is, if you don't believe in Jesus and don't have any kids in your family, don't bother. Happiness can't be forced, no matter how much blood, sweat, effort, money and alcohol you throw at it. Why should we have fun on this day? Because we're told to?

I don't buy into that shit, I can have fun any day of the year but the two days of the year that I am expected to have fun I very rarely do, my birthday and Christmas. Every other day is a laugh but organised, planned and prepared joy is rarely as good as the spontaneous joy which occurs on a day to day basis.


Merry Boxing day you happy little hangovers!

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Bams.

Kelvingrove Park has joined the list next to bus stops, the ABC, T in the Park, my bebo page and Glesga morgues, of places that are full of neds.

Kelvingrove park used to be an early summer haven for all those with nothing better to do but fritter and pish the last of their student loans and the re-embursment on their Byers Road flat deposit. Buckfast, Sainsbury's disposable Barbeques and Diablos in hand and it was off to the park, iPod and speakers in their man bags, cross-gender sunglasses perched on their noses, we would all come together to worship the sun. It was, as dreadfully pretentious as it sounds, a great laugh and one of the truly cultured hotspots that Glasgow had to offer. We were important people in an important part of the city. We would sit around happily on our spongy arses, mincing from group to group, puffing badly rolled, grass joints and hesitantly sipping our "buckie" pretending to be oh-so-scheme. No trouble. Just wankers. Kings of our hill. All acting as masterbatory aids to each of the little boutique cleek members, rougue frisbies skimming overhead on an uncertain course, all to the soundtrack of the latest sound of Glasgow's glam jam underground. You can almost taste the carefully blanketed ignorance. It was fun.

But not so long ago, an entirely new, polar breed of wanker entered the park. Something different. An alien species that Glasgow's jasmine scented West End had not been prepared for.

Fat, shirtless, beetroot tinted plankton now sit as kings of the hill. Sooking their Buckfast as if it were contained within a breast, smoking immaculatley rolled council hash/Mayfair joints and convinced of their stance as the hills rightful owners. D2 jumpers tied around their waists, Hackett jeans rolled up to the knees and tattoos of their 6 wean's birthdays on their back.

Malkey - 07/04/2003
Chelsea-Ann - 23/01/2004
Lee - 30/10/2004
Stacy-Marie - 14/07/2005
Henrick - 24/05/2006
Leslie-Michelle - 18/02/2007
 
You also have the munter scheme dug women that hang off these unevolved bottom feeders as well. Lying there, sunning their chests with the first UV rays that haven't been ommitted from a lightbulb in 4 years, proudly sporting their Chinese tattoos that we're told ironically means Peace, Love and Harmony, but actually means Chicken Satay, black bean sauce and a side of fried rice. She's down graded from the bottle of Tropical MD 20/20 and Mayfair superkings to Blue WKDs and Richmond Menthols because she's "pregnant and that". Oh what joy, another helpless little murdering thug in the making. These are the type of people that have ruined the West End summer experience for peaceful, loving and harmonious student types.

I remember one incident where these things flexed their muscles and gave us all an example of their true control over the peaceful Belle and Sebastian fans.

"Ho you ya fuckin' prick! Aye you wi the fuckin' snakes oan his heed! Gees oor frisby back ya ride!" shouted one of these enormous, man-shaped prawns to an unexpecting young chap with dreadlocks.

Now, not only had these mockit fuck tards almost hit this man's girlfriend with a frisby, the frisby belonged to our dreadlocked friend! "Gees oor frisby back" is a little forceful isn't it. Not only are you barking an order at a person you almost assaulted with a flying disc, you are declaring ownership of the young man's summer toy. Our dreadlocked friend was caught right in the middle of a morale dillema, throw the frisby back and let this pointless act of "bam-up the spongers" continue, or don't and risk getting his cunt kicked up and down the hill.

This is exactly the sort of thing that we Westenders wouldn't tolerate if our testicles weren't internal organs. Everyone hates these people. They ruined the relaxed atmosphere we used to bathe in. They've pished in the bath. It doesn't matter if it's just a drop, it's in there, and it's a no go zone folks.
 
The most hillarious thing about the whole ned/human situation is that if neds were intelligent enough to understand their powers of intimidation, they could have a lot more than "a swig o' yer buckie big fulla" or "30p fir ma bus", they could in fact they could take over the world. With threats such as "gees yer ring or i'll take yer hond" and "tap us yer motor or i'll slash ye" they could reduce the Strathclyde Police force to a hole in the ground, and have the arm of the British Government twisted and pulled up behind it's back. They could control the world if they had a brain that wasn't being pickled in tonic wine and cheap eckies.
 
And I think we have every right to be frightened. How can you feel safe on the streets knowing that the criminals have better weapons than the Police? Police have a stick and a pepper flavoured spray, the bams have got swords and chainsaws.
"Hold it right there or I'll hit you on the head with this stick and spray your eyes with my poorly scented deodrant!" doesn't really compare to "Am gonnae burst your spleen through yer arsehole and turn you intae a lolly pop cuntybaws!!" Just wait until some wee bam in Castlemilk figures out how to re-wire his microwave and turn it into a nuclear weapon, on that day you have to praise the lord for letting us live in the most ridiculous century in history. But we gave the Police one good go with the guns and what happened...some cunt dodging a train fare gets 10 bullets pumped into his head.
 
Is there no boundary to this social disease? Will they stop at nothing until they have colon-ised every square centimeter in Scotland? Is it really all going to end in a blaze glory for the carefree social cockroaches? Or will the world suddenly realise that adolescent castration for anyone that tucks their socks into their trousers is necessary to maintain law and order? Take that chib out of their Fred Perry knock-off boxer shorts and chop their bollocks off, throw them down the drain and lets get into a bit of social cleansing.
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Vote Gardiner.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Rod(hypnol) Stewart



Jesus.

Check out the onion bag.

If I was that girl, I'd take my drink to the toilet with me.
She's waking up in a grit bin.


Friday, November 21, 2008

The Smallest Penis and Gary Glitter's birthday party.

Aye so the other day I went to this Korean spa thing, called a Jimjimbang. And these spas are really nice, you can get into these big hot baths, sauna, steam rooms, massage, get your nails done, the works.

But the thing is they're separated, girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen, cunts and cocks right, because you have to get completely bollock naked. Now I'd never experienced anything like this before, being naked with a load of other men, so I was a bit unsure about the whole thing, but I went along with it, new country, different culture and that, trying new things is what I'm all about.

So as soon as we get in there, we're being confronted with man nudity every way we turned. And the thing is, theres no age limit in these places, as old as you like and as young as you like. Your seeing old wrinkly men that look like old teabags and wee boys that look like wee boys. A bit edgy but more on that later. We made our way over to the lockers and started to get undressed. Like I said, I've never really been in a position like this before, I wasn't in any sports teams at high school or university or anything, so I wasn't accustomed to being naked with a load of guys, so I was sheepishly taking my clothes off whilst having a sneaky peak round to make sure I didn't have the smallest pencil in the case. I'm in East Asia, so if the rumours were anything to go by I wouldn't have anything to worry about.

And I didn't have anything to worry about, I looked at a hand full of willies, maybe 10 or 15, like I said, a hand full. So I was feeling good, proudly stripping down to the skud, swinging it about and that. Now at this point I started to get very concious, not because of size, shape or colour or anything but...you see, I'm still a young guy right. My hormones are still all over the place, and i'm still prone to the odd random erection. I am a lot more in control of the wee man than I once was, but I'm still at risk of getting an unprovoked hard on now and again. Now, in a room full of naked men, disgustingly old and sinfully young, in a homphobic country like Korea, you don't want to be sporting a hard on. I started racking my brain, desperately trying to put the unsexiest image I could muster into my head. The same sort of thing you do when your having sex and trying to last a bit longer, you think unsexy thoughts so you don't dump your muck after about 45 seconds. I have a cum curdling image I use for occassions like this.

There's this fat old bird that lives on my street back home, she's lovely right, really nice, but I'd rather shag a forrest fire. She's a big massive hing that needs a zimmer frame to support her, the only thing in the world that's slower than her is her metabolism. So I picture her, on a rainy January morning, out in the back garden, wearing only a thong, mixing cement.

So that was what I put in my head as I went to the showers. Happy as larry, nae danger of getting a random. But it was at that moment that I saw something quite startling. I stopped in my tracks and completely forgot about the unsexy image. If I was wearing socks it would have knocked them off.

I saw the smallest penis I've ever seen in my life.

Now, like I said, I haven't been in this sort of situation many times, so the only experience I really have with other cocks comes from watching pornographic documentaries. As I'm sure you're aware, the guys in porn movies are hung like Ian Curtis, and it doesn't really give you an accurate average of the male fallous. But this boy's willy was like nothing I've ever seen before, it was tucked away in there, almost completely hidden amongst a mass of pubic hair. Clearly the age old male secret of trimming you pubic hair to make you boaby look bigger was never told to this guy, but I mean this hing was so small there wouldn't really be any point, you can't make the best of a bad situation in this case, you can't sugar coat it, it's like putting a top hat on a dog shit. Anyways, I think it would be quite dangerous for this guy to attempt to go in there with the scissors just incase he slipped and his cock ended up in the toilet pan. But this thing was just....it looked like a Werthers Original in a bird's nest.

But after a few minutes I got over what I'd just seen and got on with getting ma spa on. We went and scrubbed down and headed on over to the baths. There's a big mix of hot and cold baths to choose from and the way that they recommend you do it is go from one straight the other and get the blood flowing. We hit the hot one up first and boiled ourselves up nice. Very relaxing, lovely stuff folks. We spent about 2 minutes in there and then sauntered over to the cold bath. When we got in it there was a load of other blokes in there, maxin' relaxin', so we got as comfortable as you could in a freezing cold bath.

It was at this point that I could suddenly sympathise with the guy with the smallest penis in the world because if it got any colder, I would be after his crown. It was baltic man. But I closed my eyes and tried to block out the feelings of discomfort and focus on Keria Knightley, on a sunny day, in my back garden, wearing only a thong, mixing drinks to try and add a couple of inches onto the wee fella to try and save my embarassment when I got out. I noticed that the water was splashing around a hell of a lot, like a tide had suddenly developed in the bath. I opened my eyes to see what was going on and suddenly forgot about Keria Knightley and thought about the fat woman with the cement again.

Me and my mate were sitting completely naked in a cold bath with four children all under the age of ten.

This was the single most bizzare moment of my entire life. I did not expect to be in a position like this. Not when I was 21. 81 maybe, but not at 21. Suddenly the whole relaxing atmosphere of the spa, wasn't very relaxing anymore. It was horrible, they were splashing around and having a great time and I was terrified. Nobody in the spa thought anything sinister about the whole thing, this was normal to them, but I had never felt more like a criminal.

Just awful.

That put somewhat of a dampener on the experience. I left shortly after.


Piece



Ross x

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Expectation

I can never seem to live up to my own expectations and I’ll happily bore you with the details; believe it or not, there was one time in my life where I genuinely expected myself to make it as a professional footballer.

As a small child I never had much interest in anything other than Action Man, rusks and shiteing myself, but at that time, and in hindsight I suppose, I would have been content if that had been where my level of importance in this world had peaked. Yes, I am saying that in retrospect, I would have been happy being disabled. Rollicking around, playing with homo-erotic children’s toys and wreekin of rusky feces would have suited the young Gardiner just fine. I was a happy child, I had no knowledge that one day someone would expect something from me.

Then somebody passed me a football and told me to run with it. And suddenly,"Fuck Action Man! I want to be a professional footballer!"

My parent’s were desperate to get me interested in something (shiteing maself suddenly wasn’t exactly the lucrative career path I had hoped it would be) and football seemed to work out fine. I practiced day and night, thought about football every moment of every day, my heart longed to taste the success of domestic cup-winning professional football. I would have done anything to live out that dream.

Then somebody leant me Nevermind and sold me a block of hash. And suddenly, "Fuck football! I want to be a rockstar!"

I got a part-time job washing dishes, scrimping and saving my money until I could afford an electric guitar to set me off on my path to stardom. And I genuinely believed I could do it. My parents got me lessons, I practiced day and night, thought about music every moment of every day, my nosed longed to snort the success of the stadium-rock-licked high life. I would have done anything to live out that dream.

Then somebody passed me a grass joint and told me I was "playing it wrong" but I was funny. And suddenly, "Fuck Music! I want to be a comedian!"

I bought every book I could find on the subject and honed my skills on my friends, trying desperately to make anybody I could laugh until fluid came out of their nose. And I genuinely believed I could do it. I practiced day and night, thought about comedy every moment of every day, my balls tingled at the prospect of being on stage and making groups of people laugh for a living. I would have done anything to live out that dream.

Then somebody told me I wasn’t funny enough and gave me a line of ching, and another and another and another and another and another and another. And suddenly, "Fuck Comedy! I want to be the best at everything!"

I decided from that point on that I was the most important person in the room. It doesn’t matter which room. Any room ya prick! I was forever going to be the best at everything, and even if it was proved that I wasn’t, I still was because I’m ME and you’re a wanker. I practiced being the best at stuff day and night, thought about myself every moment of everyday, my nose and cheeks were numb at the prospect of one day being able suck my own dick.

Then somebody offered me 50 quid for coke in exchange for sucking their cock.

Now I suck for blow.

If it wasn’t for expectation, I could still be eating rusks, picking my nose, having my arse-wiped for me and taking a bath with Action Man.

People expected me to do things. Worse still, I expected me to do things.

I’m sick to death of expectation. I hate it, it should have been number one on my list of things I hate, but I expected myself to be able to think of something I hated more.

Piece

Ross x

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Products of the Year: Part One

So I was bored at work today. Didn't have any classes because the kids were getting tested. Hepatitis or something, I don't know, I stayed out of it. But I chose to spend the day looking at some of the weird things that people spend their money on. The following are the pick of the day's hard labour.
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The first one, the product that started this whole charade, was found completely by accident. When you type "Scented Rubbers" into Google, you don't expect to find pencil erasers.
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Why would you invent something like this? The main selling point seems to be the scent and little milk carton container, but I think your sending potentially fatal signals to your child. Why would you make a chunk of rubber that looks like blamange, smells like strawberries and comes in a carton....and then punt it on to kids? They're going to eat the fucking thing!
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I remember as a 6 year old eating a whole chap stick because it smelt like peppermint. It didn't look like food, nor was it presented in a box associated with oral consumption, but I was tricked by the smell and the smell alone. I was a smart kid and not exactly one for experimentation (I didn't take mushrooms nor did I once put my finger up ma bum and smell it), the same cannot be said for the kids of today.
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This is going straight down the hatch.
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The next one on my crazy list is this little beauty. An overall for your chicken. Funny because most people just use tin foil.
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But there would appear to be a market out there for people who have chickens as pets and like to dress them up in clothes.
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Dressing up dogs and cats infuriates me enough but this is pulling the pish. It also comes with a lovely little disclaimer at the bottom: "Chicken not included."
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Now...for one of my favourites. I love this one. It would go down very well in the UK since the smoking ban because you can no longer piss on the ciggie for
pub toilet sport anymore. This is a set of football goals and a mini ball that you can pish on to.
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I can tell exactly how this one came about. Some maverick inventor was out of their face in a pub toilet one night and was very bored. He was happily pishin' his load and looked down to see a ball of chewing gum sitting there nestled amongst the urinal cakes. "Hmmmmm, that ball of chewing gum looks like a......" He staggers out the toilet so fast, cock still hangin' there, looking for the nearest coaster and a pen to jot down his terrific idea. And at that point my friends, history was made.
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The only gripe I have with this truely magnificent idea is that football is a spectator sport. Urinating is not.
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I am impressed that I managed to get to the end of this product review without a single crude ball joke. Wait, does that count as one?
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This one doesn't really need much explaining. A crocodile foot that some disrespectful bastard has turned into a beer glass. This poor animal was probably shot solely for this abmonination of engineering and novelty product innovation.
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Couple of things. The glass is attached with rope by the looks of things, at least give the fucker the dignity of a bit of glue or something. It's bad enough you made his foot into a drinks holder but you didn't even have the decency to make it a quality novelty item.
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Also, look at the size of the fucking thing! That's never going comfortably into your cupboard. I'd also say that the weight ratio is a bit off, clip his toenails and your getting closer to the desired spirit level. You'd spill your beer everywhere if you tried to drink out of this. If your going to kill an animal and turn it into something pointless, at least give the poor thing the dignity of making it ergonomically sound.
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This is the website's description of the product:
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What a hoot of a conversation piece, and functional too, if you wish, as a mug, beer stein or even a pen holder for your desk. Available exclusively from us. Mug is black ceramic or clear glass. Hand wash only.
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"What a hoot of a conversation piece" - Jesus christ, what the fuck would you think if you were at a dinner party and somebody said, "No, no, it's okay. I brought my own glass" and hauled this thing out of his rucksack? Conversation starter, party ender I think.
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"...or even a pen holder" - Show a morsel of respect! A pen holder!?! Jesus christ. At least drink the finest French wine from the cunt, don't put your Bic's in it.
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"Hand wash only" - Can you imagine the wife's reaction when she emptied the dishwasher one morning and found a crocodile's foot in it? Of course your not going to dishwash the fucking thing!!! You'd have to be the stupidest cunt in the world to do something like that, although this product is clearly aimed at that very person.
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There's more to come, I'll wait until you idiots have been paid until I let you know about some of the other ridiculous wastes of money I've stumbled across on my travels across the world wide web.
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Piece
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Ross x

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Jeg

I went out for a smoke after today's classes as I do everyday, because after a hard, nicto-free day my habit needs fed immediately. As always, after having a cigarette I generally find myself to be quite parched and my thirst in desperate need of quenching. Get that taste I craved so badly out of my mouth again.

I went to my local By The Way on the hunt for a suitable refreshment that would fit my mood and requirements at that particular moment. As I got to the beverage fridge my mouth was sent wild with the many different prospects. Grape Juice ("Nah, stinkin'"), Aloe Vera ("Bit of a suspicous texture, like water and semen"), Mountain Dew ("I want to sleep tonight thank you", Frappe ("I'd rather suck ma granny's pants fir refreshment"), Pepsi ("my usual tipple, but nah"), green tea ("Belongs in a cup, not in a bottle"), Corn juice (Whit?!"), water ("nae chance")...Nothing was quite rubbing me up the right way. I had semi at the thought of Tropicana but Minute Maid...I'm not a French pesant. I needed a full blown hard-on inspiring thirst quencher here, none o' yer pish. "Right cunt, there's no Tropicana, keep looking..."

And then....

My eyes were drawn to a bright orange bottle that sent sentiment and recollections rushing through my blood like hepatitis. It was sharp and soft memory of times long past and long in the future. Something I craved, something I needed, something my mouth wanted so badly I'd take it up the arse for mere droplet on my ever longing taste buds. The colour of this slender, feminine shapped bottle reminded me of Irn-Bru.

I knew what I was looking at. I also knew fine and well what I was not looking at. It was not my fair Scottsh mistress in a Korean dress. It was Orange Fanta. Bouffin.

You see, had I been from any other country in the world I probably would have known that this was Orange Fanta immediately, but in Scotland, Orange Fanta is yellow. I don't know why this is, maybe because there's only allowed to be one fluorescent Orange soft drink in my country and more than one will bring about Catholic and Protestant bigotry, "Ho!!! Wheres aww the green drinks then ya dirty Orange bastards?!? Change the colour of Coke and we'll talk!" So when I see a bright Orange drink in a glass paneled beverage holster, my hand rejects any obejections my brain may have (which is never I suppose) and goes straight for the good stuff, Irn-Bru, a bottle of ginger, jeg, liquid smack. Cook that shit up in a spoon and shoot it straight into my arm Renton!

I love her.

But I bought the Fanta anyway. Like a bird buying a football top, "I just bought it cause ah liked the colour" and thought that possibly, maybe, perhaps, I could trick my mouth into thinking it was getting the same thing as my eyes thought they were getting. But no, sadly, it tasted precisely like Orange Fanta has always tasted...fuckin' mingin'.

Anyways, most of you won't know much about this hard drink (if poppers are a soft drug and smack is a hard drug, then this is no soft drink) so I had a wee look on wikipedia and found this little bit of information that truly sums up how the Scots feels about their true national drink.

"When McDonald's restaurants first opened for trading in Glasgow they did not serve Irn-Bru. This was seen as an insult by some Scots, and a campaign to correct this oversight was launched. After many of their restaurants were picketed, McDonald's relented and began to stock Irn-Bru alongside their other soft drinks." - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irn-Bru#Cultural_influence

Piece


Ross x

Thursday, November 6, 2008

EnvironMENTAL

Right, I'm just gonna come out and say this. I'm not going to sugar coat it for all you hippies, tree-hugging friends of the earth or vegetarians out there, this is how it is, straight from the heart, me to you, cunt to cunt. I hate recycling. HATE it. There it is, I've said it.


Don't get me wrong, I like the idea. Save the planet, save ourselves, save wildlife and save money (apparently) all good things. Well that part about saving money is a bag of bollocks for starters. A load of old scrote. I had to pay 3000 won the other day to buy special (and I use that term loosely) recycling bin bags. 3 fucking grand!?! And then right, just to add about a kilo of salt to my wound, they gave me a free shopping bag to carry them home in! I'm like "Cunt...What's wrong with putting my rubbish in this free bag?"

Right so...I have to buy recycling bags and if I want to get rid of the plastic bag that the shop gave me, I have to put it in one of these recycling bags. I have to pay to throw things away? And not just some things, every things. Fuck that, shouldn't that service be covered by the tax I paid on the goods? I don't know, I'm no economist, but I am a cheap, Scottish bastard.
The maddest thing is right, over here you can get boxes to carry your shopping home in (so you don't have to take multiple free bags), and those boxes are free right, and then once you get home, unpack your shopping, what do you do with the box? You put it into one of those bags you paid for and throw it out. So, to summarise, I am acquiring something for free and then paying to throw it away?!?


Moving on now to the main reason I hate recycling. The biggest problem I have with recycling is that now that there are so many bins for so many different things that I can't seem to ever find the one that I need. There seems to be a bin for absolutely fucking everything now, EXCEPT what ever it happens to be in my hands. It's getting out of control to the point where there are so many bins lying about that they've become the litter. Making the place look all dirty and that because I'm sure you would agree, there's nothing filthier than a bin. You'd sooner eat your dinner off the street than out of the bin, am I right? Bins are a magnet for tramps and seagulls and the more bins you have, the more tramps and seagulls you'll have. Now that's dirty man.

Bins for plastic, bins for food, bins for electronics, bins for your baby teeth, bins for dead animals, bins for those really big dreams you couldn't fulfill, bins for Cliff Richard LPs, bins for Cliff Richard, bins for etc. etc. You used to get a bollocking in street for littering, and I dig that man, I'm down with the clown on that one sister, that's fine, don't litter. But now right, you're trying to do a good thing, put your litter in a bin but suddenly some cock wearing sandals, rose-tinted sunshades and a ring in his nose shouts:
"Exccuuuuuuuuuse meeeee!!!! You can't put aluminum in that bin you irresponsible thug!!!!!! That bin is for ferrous metals only, Jesus Christ, the Non-ferrous metal bin is the 8th bin on the left. No! That's the shoe bin, it's the one after the bin for blue things. Yes, yes, that's it. And please at least try show a bit more respect for our earth next time you decide to throw something away."

I have one final moan for you today. Seoul is a city that is really jumped up with the environment and is trying to do the right thing as far as our planet is concerned. I got pulled up by one of my colleagues because I left my projector on stand-by while I went to eat my lunch one day. I was only gone for 30 minutes and later on that evening, just as I was about to leave school, he knocks on my door and comes in to lecture me about it.

"Hi Rosse-uh, how aaaah you? Goooood gooood, an your Korea lunch? Ee was good yes? Goooood goooood. You left on you prohector ah lunch time, not gooooood faw environmen, we must not waste enagy, save planet...to..to...togefa, you undasand? Gooooood gooooood, you have gooooooood day yes? Yeeeess, bye bye"

I'm not having a dig right. That guy's English is fucking good compared to most and he is a lovely bloke (a bit weird and he carries about a beating stick all the time but on the whole, he's tip top) but that is how he talks. But what I am trying to say is that me leaving a projector on stand-by for half an hour is hardly going to put a spanner in the works of this country's seemingly non-existent energy saving program. At night almost any street in Seoul makes the Las Vegas strip look like an environmentally cautious fruit machine. There is an enormous amount of energy being wasted in this city with every shop, bar or restaurant having some sort of Pink Floyd-esque neon light show on the side of the building.
It's fucking outrageous the amount of unnecessary energy being wasted trying to lure customers to your business, so the question has to be raised, do they really give a fuck about saving energy or is it all to do with saving the economy? Do they really want to change or do they just want your change?

'Recycle! Save the planet! Buy these bags and save the planet! Save energy! Come little flies, come to the neon glow, bring your wallet! Let's make a better, cleaner environment! Save the earth! Buy stuff!'


I can't get ma nut around it.

It's environMENTAL folks.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Things I hate - An Ode to George Carlin

  • People that don't realise I am wearing headphones to avoid talking to them.
  • People that use the fact that they're blonde as an excuse for doing something fucking stupid. And most of the people that use this self-deprecating ideology are not even blonde, they dye their hair blonde so that they can pretend to have idiotic excuse for being a fucking idiot.
  • Cunts that stand still on the walking side of the escalator.
  • People who play air instruments in nightclubs. Yes yes, I get it. You can play a real musical instrument and you would like everyone is the room to know that. Please stop this desperate attempt to make yourself look sexually appealing to women who like 'guys in bands'. You look like a spastic with his nipples hooked up to a car battery.
    Air drums are the worst because people that play them always do it accurately, they make sure they get all the fills and even get the kick drums on time, as if they were actually playing the drums. The air guitar catapulted out of fashion in the 90s and just consists of fit-like flailing of limbs and head banging, and air keyboard is the squarest shape you can possibly bust on a dance floor. But where are all the people playing the air bass?
  • People that wear rugby shirts. I don't think I need to justify myself on that one.
  • Summer - Too much sunshine, visible cellulite and optimism.
  • Fat people that buy lots of fitness equipment for their home. Home is where the fridge is. Go outside and walk far away from a shop or a fridge and you WILL lose weight.
  • People that drive to the gym to walk on the treadmill.
  • Electric pencil sharpeners. Who the hell thought that sharpening a pencil was too much effort that there should be a machine to do it for you? The people mentioned above I'm sure. If you really need to sharpen that many pencils that it could become painful to rotate a 20g piece of metal then my suggestion is buy a fucking pen.
  • When I try my best to let off a wee stealth fart and just when I think I got away with it someone appears out of nowhere and awkwardly tries to talk to me and ignore the blatantly obvious fart climbing up their nostrils.
  • Winter - Too cold, expensive and depressing.
  • People that make a situation incredibly uncomfortable by trying to make sure that you are comfortable.
    "Can I get you anything? Are you sure? Just a wee tea or a coffee? Juice! We've got juice if you'd prefer, apple or orange or...do we have blackcurrant Jim? Jim! We've no got any no? Well I'll just nip down the shops and get some. It's no problem. Really? Are you sure you're okay? Something to eat maybe? You look thirsty, a wee glass of Dr Pepper or something. Can I get you anything? That seat can't be comfortable. Listen come on, you can't sit there like that, take my seat. You'll hurt you back like that, sure come on and sit down here in my seat. I'll just stand here. Are you okay? Is that seat alright for you? Me? No, I'm fine, I like standing. Can I get you a tea or something? Are you comfortable like that? I'll nip next door to my mother's and get you another wee cushion. No, don't you be silly it's no problem at all. Back in a jiffy! I'll see if she's got any blackcurrant while I'm through."
  • Your mate's band.
  • Spring - Too much nature, poetry and pre-summer optimism.
  • Clothes covered in zips that don't zip.
  • Guys that can't accept that they're 70% bald and have that stupit beard thing on the back of their head. It's like that girlfriend that chucked you 10 years ago. She's gone and she's not coming back mate! Get over it! She gradually slipped through your fingers, and in the end she packed up and left you for the bathroom floor.
  • Autumn - Too much stuff and things everywhere.
  • The lads, the blokes, the geezers, the boys and the fellas.
  • Myself.

I had to get all that off my tits folks.

I hope that gave you something to th(dr)ink about.

Ross x

Thursday, October 16, 2008

If you want roses go to the florist.


I got a bit of a shock yesterday. But it was a pleasant shock, the sort of jolt of astonishment you would get if you were standing in a queue for a newspaper and you suddenly felt the hand of Liz Hurley cup your groin. At first you'd be livid and very surprised by her act of unprovoked sexual assault, but then after it sunk in for a second you'd smile happily and realise she did it because she's a slut.


I was chatting away to a friend on http://www.facebook.com and he asked me, "So Ross, me old ring binder, what's Seoul like?" Now, I have answered this question so many times since arriving here and I'm always more than happy to share my thoughts, opinions, beliefs, outlook, views and experiences with anyone curious about this avant-garde city and the shit that goes down here. But this question was asked late on a school night and I hadn't the energy nor the time to explain the place the place as best as I would like to, so instead I offered my friend a link to my blog. This is where my astonishment cames from...


http://www.facebook.com refused to send the link to my blog to my friend because someone had reported it as too offensive!!!


I know that some of the views and opinions I have spewed onto that page are a bit controversial at times. I have the tendency to get a little carried away with my rants, using crass and explicit language (examples: cunt, pish, fuck, baws, ya big ginger ride, fanny, shite, rasper, Toronto etc.) to get my point across and occasionally touching on subjects that one of a fragile disposition could regard as distasteful (examples: child abuse, rape, sex, mindless acts of violence and kiwi fruit) and so when I think about it I can understand why one may consider my little bloggy wog offensive.

BUT....

You reported it to http://www.facebook.com, you dirty little grass!?!


"Sir, sir!!! Ross was using dirty language sir! He, he, he...he said the f-word, the s-word, eh, ehhhhhhhhh...the c-word, and it was very dirty sir and I think he should be expelled."


Come on. What sort of lay-about, ball scratcher goes to all that trouble of emailing http://www.facebook.com and reporting a website when they read something they can't swallow? Who has nothing better to do that to complain and moan that something they saw on a website was too offensive for their senses? I'll tell you who, old people! Really, really old people.


These old people that sit on their floral patterned armchairs with their tartan slippers on, their reading glasses balanced on the end of their ski jump, stuck-up nose, roasting by a log fire, hand writing letter upon letter to the Television Standards Agency complaining of too much 'filth', 'smut', 'foul language' and 'offensiveness' on television 'these days'. But apparently this sort of person exists in modern times amongst our youth. Sitting in their leather-look computer chair, rocking back and forth, can of Coke Zero and photo of Jesus at their side, huffing and puffing as they send email upon email to different websites and administrators trying to mother people's minds and control content. To these http://www.facebook.com "friends" of mine I say... Fuck you, if you can't grow a set then slap a set on.


Anyways, I suppose I am complaining about this but at the same time I am actually quite proud of myself. My page has been black listed by http://www.facebook.com as an offensive website and one which it does not want it's users to access as it may be offensive to them and pollute their minds. That's actually pretty far out, but I am left wondering what the criteria are for judging offensiveness? Do http://www.facebook.com have a unit of cyber-literate pensioners, sucking on Murray mints and surfing the net looking at reported websites to see if they bring them within a "Fuck you" of a heart attack? Or do they simply have a big list of things you simply mustn't do or say on your website?

  • Maximum of 4 uses of explicit language per 50000 words
  • There must be no references to child abusive, sexual assault, violence, murder, drug use or sexual perversion of a homosexual nature.
  • Thou must not take facebook's name in vein
  • There is a maximum of one flaccid male penis per page.
  • There must not be ANY traces of an erect or semi-erect male penis on said website.
  • Website is restricted to three nipples per page.
  • No mention of our Lord or his son Jesus Christ in a negative or blasphemous fashion
  • No fun to be had under any circumstances
  • Vote McCain


Just because you can't laugh doesn't mean you have to cry.


Offensiveness leads to progress. Everything new and challenging to current beliefs gets labeled as offensive and controversial. People treated, and remain to treat, Darwin's Theory of Evolution as offensive when it was 1st published, and look where we are now...

If you like offense and abuse, theres more to come. Watch this blogspace cunt.

Easy now.

Friday, October 3, 2008

Money and that

So I'm going to be skint for another month then. I get a call from my UK financial office (my parent's house) to inform me that I have overdrawn my overdraft and need to start paying the dirty bastards back. The boys at the Clydesdale Bank are a little edgy about the situation because I owe a substantial and undisclosed fee and my account has been completely inactive for over two months. No withdrawals, no deposits, no standing orders, no pending payments and no indication of a current employer. They have even greater cause for concern because the last transaction put on my Clydesdale Student Account was a one way flight to South Korea.

Now I would just like to point out that I have every intention of paying this money back. I wish to one day return to Scotland and when I do return, I hope to be in a financial situation where I don't regard suicide to be the most appealing option. The fact is that they are after me now and are sending letters to try to get their money back and unfortunately the days are long gone where you could pay this sort of debt with both your pinky fingers and a couple of toe punts to the chest, because I have become rather fond of my big bag of money and the thought of having to hand it over to these clean-cut, greetin faced, 9 to 5, pencil-pushing criminals gees me the dry boak. If it were a feasible option I could sacrifice my pinkies, I haven't used them since I stopped drinking tea with the upper classes, and my chest could really do with a couple of swift kicks to move some of my post-cold phlegm. But unfortunately I cannot barter a beating from these white collared Ned Kelly's and I have to grudgingly hand over my bag of cash once a month. 400,000 notes, once a month for the next 10 months and my debt will be cleared and as a result I will probably have dug myself into just as much debt with a Korean Bank and be about 8 stone lighter than when I left.

While we're on the topic of money, I'd just like to say that I am trying to make sense of all of this banking jargon ("Bank with us and you could enjoy a current APR of 6.9% over 24 months with added financial tax-breaks for the 6 months prior to puchase with a fixed monthy rate of compound interest on you floating mortgage repayments at a variable interest rate of your current equity value" Now, isn't that what all of our lives really need? Even more nonsense) because I am desperate to know the fate in store for the financial world and it gives me great pleasure reading about Wall Street's gradual trip down the pan, round the U-bend and out to sea. Reading these reports and making sense of the current economical situation gives me a semi because, forgive me for being optimistic and unrealistic, the end of this shallow, capital driven existence could be near.

Look at your Louis Vutton bags, your Peter Werth 3-piece suit, your Lexus on finance, your 3 bedroom semi-detached with a garden space, the wife's wedding ring, your time-share in Cornwall, your Kenny Roger's back catalogue, your Samsung 52 inch, your box seat at Lords, your iPhone and the rest of this shallow little pile of shite you have shodily assembled on credit to compensate for a lack of personality and realise that it's your fault. Don't buy things you can't afford.

Don't shop at John Lewis when Argos will do.


Don't take me seriously, I have no idea what I'm talking about. But for the first time in my life, I'm actually glad I'm broke.



Ross Sung-Kim x

My Facebook is sick right now.
I have been doing a little too much "socialising", if you know what I mean. I've been putting myself out there, meeting new people almost every night, handing out my URL left, right and centre and generally being a bit of a social hoor. But as much fun as I've had, now it's all coming back to sting me.
It's rather embarrassing to be honest and I don't really know why I'm telling you but, my Facebook has caught an STD (Social-Networking Transmitted Disease) and a nasty irritation has developed in my inbox. I think this is a direct result of my page coming into contact with too many fannies.
From now on please contact me on myspace.com or bebo.com because I don't want you to catch this horrible disease as well.
Get in tae it.
Ross Sung-Kim x

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Chuseok

This weekend is Korean Thanksgiving. The country comes to a stand still, everyone gets even more hammered than usual and people frivilously hand out strange gifts to one another.

I can understand why the country shuts down. It's like christmas day for them, all families get together and pretend to enjoy one anothers company, have a large meal and drink theselves into a state of comfortable communication. Like western christmas, it sounds like a bit of shitshow, where we all pretend to enjoy ourselves for the sake of others, an unnecessary amount of money is spent and we miss the point of the celebration entirely. The next day we wake up delighted that that situation will not happen again for another 364 days.

Getting hammered...thats just what they do here. All the time. Everyday. I recall (hazily) walking home at 6 o'clock on a Sunday morning and seeing groups of poeple sitting outside a corner shop, guzzling Soju ("Korean Whisky") with no end visibly in sight. I find it hard to tell whether their day is close to an end or just at the start. Either way you can safely assume that these people are serious alcohol abusers. They obliterate the Scots for binge drinking. They would make light work of the undisputed binge drinking champions of the west, and they have done, every time I go out for a drink I am left in the gutter with the rest of the crackers.

And finally.....Strange gifts. Well, one of my fellow teachers, very kindly I must add, thought it a lovely gesture to buy me a gift to celebrate Chuseok. I felt guilty accepting this gift as I had not even thought to buy anything for anyone (One: because I am too skint to feed myself let alone shower others with treats and Two: because I am a cheap, self-centered Scottish bastard) but I accepted anyway, as that is the way here. People offer gifts and tokens of appreciation at any possible occassion and you are advised to decline the gift twice and accept on the third offering. Anyway, I was offered a large golden box, with very attractive hand wound rope handles and a beautiful pattern design on the front. It was heavy and bulky and to be honest I had no idea of what bizzare offering would lurk within. I thanked my co-worker very much and forced a smile that suggested, i'm absolutely taken a back by you actions of generosity but I am shiteing my bags about what you've given me (this is the case as previous gifts have included the most vulgur foods made from rice, seaweed and other unnamed mystery ingrediants, half of Colombia's supply of coffee and several boxes of tissues) and was I going to have to pretend that what dwelled within this gorgeous box was exactly what my life needed. After she left, I took a deep breath and begun to slowly open the box, taking my time not to tear or deface the golden packaging, and then I suddenly relaised what she had given to me....24 Kiwi Fruit. Cheers.

Okay, now I appreciate the gift awrite, nice gesture and that, but 24?!? Twenty-fucking-four! 3 kiwi fruit, a pineapple and a punnet of Strawberries would have been fine. Why 24 of the same obscure fruit? This woman knows that I live on my own. Was she expecting this to be my entire diet for the next 5 days? Because if she wasn't then she wanted fruit to go mouldy in my fridge, attracting all manner of terrifying bugs and filthy diseases this country has to offer. What sort of woman am I working with here? Was this an ungratefulness test? If I was to turn this gift down and tell her that she was a fucking psycho with mince taste in presents would I then be showered with better gifts or, would she and the rest of school all stand around and look at me like I'd been caught with my hand down one of my pupil's pants? It's a fucking whitey troops, it really is.

As the whole country shuts down over this weekend I cannot get to the shop to buy food so right now I am working my way through what is easily the most demented gift anyone has ever given me. I have 17 left and must get through them before they go mouldy (Sunday).

Fuck me, what a weird place man.


Love


Ross Sung-Kim x

Saturday, September 20, 2008

You will read or you shall bleed.

My first month of teaching has thankfully been something of learning experience for the children concerned and myself, the “teecha”.

I think the children have learned a bit of English, gained confidence and learned to shut the fuck up when I’m talking. And I have learned that I hate kids and have no respect for them whatsoever.They are moaning little shits that burst out of control the second your back is turned and there is always one little smart arse that thinks he’s better, funnier and more intelligent than everyone else in the room. In every case, that is me. But there are always challengers to my throne as the biggest knob gobbler in the room but luckily, corporal punishment is still legal in South Korea and my co-teachers will beat any child that steps out of my very thin line of terror. What a country! Anytime a know-it-all little dick splash tries to be funnier or smarter than me he can be silenced with a ruler hit to the top of his spine. To know that you have that sort of power at the snap of your fingers (or the snap of their fingers I should say…) can really make you thirsty for more, I mean, just how far can I take this? Would it be unreasonable to exchange the ruler for a meter stick or a 2x4? Could I use this plastic bag to keep a 6 year old smart arse quiet? Or could I simply drop a half brick in the bag and set about the body?

The job of teaching the same lesson 6 times a day can get monotonous and becomes void of creation and inspiration. If I am not using my imagination to its full extent, my brain will begin to deteriorate as the children develop. The only thing to keep my new job interesting and to exercise my cruel and atrocious imagination is to design new, innovative ways to help (or hurt) and discipline (or destroy) small children to the point of redemption and moral salvation. Like I said, half brick in a plastic bag should work a belter. Excuse the pun.

I always said I wanted to be this age in the late 60s and now I have been granted the opportunity to be nasty and mean to people younger, smaller, stupider than myself and be free to get away with it without facing court hearings and public lynchings, all in the name of “personal development and discipline. One day you’ll thank me for this my boy, now gently put your jaw in this vice….”



Cunt Sung-Kim x