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I'm Moving!

As you can see, I've fiddled about with this damned thing and I've broken it. So I'm moving house. You can find the new and improved ITTODBTBIA at http://ittodbtbia.wordpress.com/ ... I suggest you go there NOW!

Hair Cancer

We have all, at one time or another, suffered from, or know someone who has suffered with, hair cancer. I myself have caught this debilitating illness on several occasions - usually after a night of heavy drinking, a fight with the missus, or a bout of rough sex. The strain I usually suffer from is known as Bee-geeus Follicles Foolhardinus and causes my normally tame barnet to misbehave itself in company and take on the shape of Robin Gibb's hair, circa 1975. No amount of washing, hair gel or combing helps the symptoms of the illness and I usually have to subject myself to months of intensive chemotherapy ... or a haircut, at the very least.

In his new book My Struggle With Hair Cancer (Random House, £14.99), actor Brad Pitt tells the harrowing story of how he has, for over a decade now, battled against the effects of Boneyemmus Ridiculii - a particulary nasty strain of hair cancer that causes the sufferer to wake up with the hairstyle of that prat who used to dance about and mime in Boney M videos. One chapter struck a chord with me in particular ...

"So I wakes up next to this bird, like, after being out on't sauce for't best part o' yesterday. I gives her boobs a squeeze, she wakes up, takes one look at me fuckin' 'air, and runs screaming from't fucking 'ouse. 'Ey up?' thinks I, 'What's the game?' It's only when I looks in't fucking mirror and sees I look like that wazzock from Boney M that I realises what's afoot ... I've gone and caught 'air cancer - a-fucking-gain!"

Illustration Friday

This week's topic is 'Buzz'. As I seem to have had an imagination bypass recently, I've gone for the bleedin' obvious.

P.S. I'm 'aving a bit of bother making this smaller so that it'll appear fully when you click on it. I've tried so many times now, I've had enough ... use the damned scrollbar!

Drivin' In My Car

Here's a short story I sent to Tim Durant at Tits And Cars International. I reproduce it here for the ages ...

So there I was, minding my own bloody business, driving the XR3i at 100 mph whilst pissed out of my face on cider when Shirley (that’s the wife) reaches over and plants her tits in my face – completely obscuring the windscreen. Alongside those gigantic boobies and the cider, sensory deprivation was heightened by the 1,000,000,000 amp speakers in the back and afore I could bellow ‘MAX POWER!’ I’d slewed The Shark (that’s the car) into a crowd of naked supermodels and Shirley’s left tit exploded in a shower of silicon. Staggering from the wreckage I stumbled straight into (and straight up) one of the supermodels. “Oi!” bellows Shirley, extricating her shattered mammary from the remains of the ‘Scort, “Get your bleedin’ ‘ands off my boyfriend’s parts, you bleedin’ slag!” (Shirley’s from the ‘lower orders’ and when she isn’t pregnant, ripped to the tits on speed or shoplifting, she’s stealing brown ale form Netto or burning down off-licences that refuse to swap cigarettes for sexual favours). “My sweet,” shouts I, “I’m badly bruised and this lady ‘ere was merely massaging life back into my trousers … ahem.” Shirley fixed me with her most withering stare ,”I want a divorce you feevin’ bleeder,” she mutters, adjusting her knickers, “And I’m keepin’ the Sat-Nav.” “Over my dead body you bloody witch!” I bellow, coming at her with the sharp-end of a fanny-hammer I’ve just found in one of the supermodels, “I’ll eat my own arse before I let you ‘ave that fucking navigation system, d’you hear?” Shirley finds a rock and throws it straight at me – inexplicably hitting me on the arse despite the fact I’m facing her. “You come anywhere near me and I’m callin’ the law!” she thunders, squirting her intact tit, spattering my battered face in hot milk (Oh Christ she’s pregnant again!), “Have at you!” she cries. “My God but I love you woman!” I shout, making a grab for her thighs. “I know Dave, I know,” she whispers. I look into her gimlet eye, “My name’s not Dave …?” says I.

It was the worst day of my life.

Humane Ways ...

Throat Cancer

Here's a little paranoid irrationality for you ... I've become convinced I've got (or will soon get) throat cancer. Quite a large amount of my waking hours are spent wandering about the house thinking, "I've got fucking throat cancer. Fuck! I'm going to die of throat cancer. What the hell am I going to do about this bastard throat cancer of mine? Have I got throat cancer?". Everytime I clear my throat I'm convinced I'm two months away from having my tongue removed by some bastard butcher masquerading as a surgeon. Everytime I poke about my smoking-destroyed jagged teeth I think I'm destined for the grave. Every day I sit and think "I'm fucking done for. My number's up ... and I had so very little else to give."

Christ ... what if I actually have got throat cancer?

Tits And Cars International

I recieved an e-mail from Tim Durant yesterday. He's the art editor on Tits And Cars International - Future Publishing's answer to that swaggering bully-boy of the magazine world, Max Power. Tits And Cars International (or Redline, as it's sometimes mistakenly called) focuses on the world of souped-up hatchbacks turned into lethal, 200 mph stereo-systems by young men in baseball caps. Photographs of middle-of-the-road Peugeots mated with Star Destroyers fight for attention with images of dodgy-looking blondes with humungous tits that flap freely in the wind. It's all jolly good fun and proves the point that if you want to make anything attractive - even pieces of metal with tyres - simply place it next to a set of tits. Lots of tits.

Tits+Cars=£££££££££

Christ Almighty

I've just read Mick Hucknall's Christmas message. He starts out by wishing his many fan a Merry Christmas but soon reverts back to his favourite topic - himself. Here's Mick's fucking message. The twat.

http://www.simplyred.com/community/viewtopic.php?t=540

Comments

Am I that intimidating? Do you fear my wrath? I have watched my little counter go up and up little by little every day and yet none of you DARE leave a comment. Everything I write to you, dear readers, is met with a wall of silence. Who are you? Why have you chosen to come back here time and again like spiders yet leave only digital footprints? Avail yourself to me my co-conspiritors ... how on earth am I meant to burn down the walls of justice if all I have behind me are creatures of the night? Does my entire following consist of monsters? Should I be afraid? Show yourselves vultures! Or blast your eyes for the knaves you are! I demand you identify yourselves or I will convince myself I'm surrounded by ghosts, wraiths and paedophiles.

At Last!

I've been dipping in and out of Wikipedia for a while now, waiting for someone to write a piece on the mighty Classic Rock magazine. And lo and behold they have. It's not what you could call 'comprehensive', but I reckon a bit of fiddling from the magazine's devoted fans'll sort that out. And it's about fucking time - Mojo have had an entry for donkey's years and, as any self-respecting music magazine fan knows, Mojo is a big steaming pile of shit.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Classic_Rock_Magazine

Cockswallop!

Well it's next year now and still the creative brick wall I slammed up against in December stands firm. As my more observent readers may have deduced, I work for a magazine (Britain's fastest selling magazine, as Herr Rowley never tires of pointing out) and magazines are notoriously finnicky about coming out once a month. This means you only have a short amount of time to come up with something ... and if you don't, you're fucked. And by fucked I mean no job, no money, fuck all. The last time this happened to me I ended up spending two years in a chair drinking cider. I'm not entirely sure I could handle that again. Arse!

Game Of The Year

Take control of either 'Arold or Albert in this riveting rag 'n' bone extravaganza from Any Old Iron Studios. Ever fancied sitting in a room full of rubbish eating pickled eggs from a jar whilst accusing your son of being a 'bleedin' nancy-boy'? Ever wanted to bring home a 'bird' only to find your father stark naked in a tin bath as you lead her into the front parlour? Ever wanted to feel what it's like to be stuck in a house with a disgusting little old man when you know in your heart you were destined for better things? Well now you can! Playing as either 'Arold or Albert you'll finally be able to experience the thrill of bickering with your own flesh and blood whenever you want!

As 'Arold you'll be able to:

Accuse your father of being a dirty old man
Have your father ruin your holiday/wedding day/current relationship
Slip on the 'orse's manure
Join a cultural society you're clearly ill-suited to
Day dream of branching out on your own
Make tea

And as Albert you'll be able to:

Pretend to be ill to prevent your son leaving you on your own
Have a bath in the living room
Accuse your son of being a bleedin poofter/nancy-boy/queer
Steal brown ale from pubs
Feel sorry for yourself
Drink tea

With its easy to control interface (see below), you'll soon be spending your free time moaning and arguing and never getting anything done other than making tea and picking at your bunions. Altogether now ... AAAAAAAAARRROOOOOOLLLD!!!!